.  . 


/ 


And  the  dead 

Steer'd  by  the  dumb  went  upward  with  the  flood- 
In  her  right  hand  the  lily,  in  her  left 
The  letter.  ..... 

For  she  did  not  seem  as  dead, 
But  fast  asleep,  and  lay  as  tho'  she  smiled. 


THE 


POETICAL    WORKS 


OF 


ALFRED   TENNYSON, 


POET    LAUREATE. 


NUMEROUS    ILL USTRA TIONS. 


NEW    YORK: 
HARPER     &     BROTHERS,    PUBLISHERS, 

FRANKLIN     SQUARE. 
I874. 


To  the  present  edition  are  added  "  Timbuctoo"  the  author s 
Cambridge  University  Prize  Poem  ;  Poems  published  in  the  Lon- 
don editions  of  1830  and  1833,  and  omitted  in  later  editions ;  and 
a  number  of  hitherto  uncollected  Poems  from  various  sources. 


CONTENTS. 


Pag« 

POEMS  (Published  1S30)  :— 

To  the  Queen 9 

Claribel 9 

Lilian 9 

Isabel 1 

Mariana 1° 

To 11 

Madeline 11 

Song.— The  Owl 12 

Second  Song 12 

Recollections  of  the  Arabian  Nights 12 

Ode  to  Memory 13 

Song H 

Adeline 14 

A  Character 15 

The  Poet. IS 

The  Poet's  Mind 1 

The  Sea-Fairies 16 

The  Deserted  House 16 

The  Dying  Swan IT 

A  D  irge 1 

Love  and  Death 1" 

The  Ballad  of  Oriaiia IS 

Circumstance 18 

The  Merman IS 

The  Mermaid 19 

Sonnet  to  J.  M.  K 19 


P  >EMS  (Published  1S32)  :— 
The  Lady  of  Shalott... 
Mariana  in  the  South  . 

Eleanore 

The  Miller's  Daughter. 

Fatima. 

CEnone 

The  Sisters 

To 


The  Palace  of  Art 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere 

The  May  Queen 

New- Year's  Eve 

Conclusion 

The  Lotos-Eaters 

A  Dream  of  Fair  Women 

Margaret 

The  Blackbird 

The  Death  of  the  Old  Year 

To  J.S 

"  You  ask  me  why,  tho1  ill  at  ease" 

"Of  old  sat  Freedom  on  the  heights" 

"Love  thou  thy  land,  with  love  far-brought" 
The  Goose 


ENGLISH  IDYLS  AND  OTHEK  POEMS  (Published 
1S42):— 

The  Epic 

Morte  d' Arthur 

The  Gardener's  Daughter ;  or,  the  Pictures., 

Dora •'••• 

Audley  Court 

Walking  to  the  Mail 

Edwin  Morris  :  or,  The  Lake 

St.  Simeon  Stylites  


The  Talking  Oak. 54 

Love  and  Duty 56 

The  Golden  Year 5T 

Ulysses 57 

Locksley  Hall 59 

Godiva 63 

The  Two  Voices 64 

The  Day-Dream 68 

Amphion 70 

Will  Waterproofs  Lyrical  Monologue 71 

To ,  after  reading  a  Life  and  Letters..  73 

Lady  Clare 73 

St.  Agnes 74 

V  Sir  Galahad 76 

^  To  E.  L.  on  his  Travels  in  Greece 76 

The  Lord  of  Burleigh 76 

Edward  Gray 77 

Sir  Launcelot  and  Queen  Guinevere 77 

A  Farewell 73 

The  Vision  of  Sin 78 

"  Come  not,  when  I  am  dead" 80 

The  Eagle 80 

"Move  eastward,  happy  Earth,  and  leave".  SO 

"  Break,  break,  break" 80 

The  Beggar  Maid 81 

The  Poet's  Song. 81 

THE  PKIXOESS  :  A  MEDLEY 88 

IN  MF.MORIAM 105 

MAUD,  AND  OTHEE  Pon.MS  :— 

Maud 129 

The  Brook:  an  Id}'! 142 

The  Letters 143 

Ode  on  the  Death  ot  the  Duke  of  Wellington  144 

The  Daisy 146 

To  the  Kev.  F.  D.  Maurice H7 

Will 14" 

j>    The  Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade 14" 

IDYLS  or  THE  KING: — (The  "Idyl*  of  the  King" 
are  here  presented  in  the  order  desiytted 
b>/  the  author.) 

'  Dedication 148 

The  Coming  of  Arthur 148 

Gareth  and  Lynette 263 

Enid 151 

Vivien 164 

Elaine 171 

The  Holy  G:  ail ISO 

Pelleas  and  Etarre 187 

The  Last  Tournament 255 

Guinevere 191 

The  Passing  of  Arthur 1% 


ENOCH  AEDEN. 


200 


ADDITIONAL  POEMS:— 

Aylmer's  Field 207 

Sea  Dreams 212 

The  Grandmother 215 

Northern  Fanner 217 

Tithouns 213 


2220578 


CONTENTS. 


Page 

The  Voyage 219 

In  the  Valley  of  Cauteretz 220 

The  Flower 220 

The  Islet 220 

Requiescat 220 

The  Sailor-boy 220 

The  Ringlet 220 

A  Welcome  to  Alexandra 221 

Ode  sung  at  the  Opening  of  the  Interna- 
tional Exhibition 221 

A  Dedication 221 

The  Captain:  a  Legend  of  the  Navy 222 

Three  Sonnets  to  a  Coquette 222 

On  a  Mourner 222 

Song 228 

Song 223 

EXPERIMENTS: — 

Boudicea 223 

In  Quantity 224 

Specimen  of  a  Translation  of  the  Iliad  in 
Blank  Verse 225 

MISCELLANEOUS  : — 

The  Northern  Farmer.     New  Style 226 

V     The  Victim 22T 

"^      Wages 228 

The  Higher  Pantheism 228 

"Flower  in  the  Crannied  Wall" 228 

Lucretius ..228 

The  Golden  Supper 230 


ADDITIONAL    POEMS, 

PRINTED  EXCLUSIVELY  IN  THIS  EDITION. 
TIMBUOTOO 234 

J'OKMS  (Published  in  the  Edition  of  1830,  and  omit- 
ted in  later  Editions)  :— 

Elegiacs 236 

The  "How"  and  the  "Why" 236 

Supposed  Confessions  of  a  Second-rate  Sen- 
sitive Mind  not  in  Unity  with  Itself 236 

The  Burial  of  Love 238 

To  238 

Song t ...  238 

Song 23S 

Song 238 

Nothing  will  Die 239 

All  Things  will  Die 239 

Hero  to  Leander 239 

ThB  Mystic 240 

The  Grasshopper 240 

Love,  Pride,  and  Forgetf illness 240 

Chorus  in  an  Unpublished  Drama,  written 

.  very  early 240 

Lost  Hope 241 

The  Tears  of  Heaven 241 

Love  and  Sorrow 241 

To  a  Lady  Sleeping 241 

Sonnet 241 

Sonnet 241 

Sonnet 241 

Sonnet 241 

Love 242 

The  Kraken 242 

English  War-Song 242 

National  Song 242 

Dualisms. 243 

We  are  Free 243 

oi  piovTfs 243 


fm 

POEMS  (Published  in  the  Edition  of  1833,  and  omit- 
ted in  later  Editions) : — 

Sonnet 243 

To  L 24T, 

Buonaparte 244 

Sonnets 244 

The  Hesperides 244 

Rosalind 245 

Note  to  Rosalind 245 

Song 245 

Kate 245 

Sonnet 246 

Sonnet 246 

Sonnet 246 

O  Darling  Room 246 

To  Christopher  North 246 

OCCASIONAL  POEMS: — 

No  More 247 

Anacreontics 247 

A  Fragment 247 

Sonnet 247 

Sonnet 247 

The  Skipping-Rope 247 

The  New  Timon  and  the  Poet;? 247 

After-Thought 248 

Stanzas 248 

Sonnet 248 

Britons,  Guard  Your  Own 248 

The  Third  of  February,  1852 249 

Hands  All  Round 249 

The  War 2,'.0 

1S65-1866 2f.O 

On  a  Spiteful  Letter 250 


THE     WINDOW; 

OR, 

THE    SONGS    OF    THE    WRENS. 


I.  Ox  THE  HILL 251 

"The  lights  and  shadows  fly." 

II.  AT  THE  WINDOW 251 

"Vine,  vine  and  eglantine." 

III.  GONE! 251 

"  Gone !  gone  till  the  end  of  the  year." 

IV.  WINTER 251 

"  The  frost  is  here,  and  fuel  is  dear." 

V.  SPRING 253 

"Birds'  love  and  birds'  song." 

VI.  THE  LETTER 253 

"  Where  is  another  sweet  as  my  sweet  ?"* 

VII.  No  ANSWER 253 

"  The  mist  and  the  rain,  the  mist  and  the 
rain." 

VIII.  No  ANSWER 253 

"  Winds  are  loud  and  you  are  dumb." 

IX.  THK  ANSWER 253 

"Two  little  hands  that  meet." 

IX".  AY  ! 253 

"Be  merry,  all  birds,  to-day. "t 

X.  WIIF.N  ? 254 

"  Sun  comes,  moon  comes,  time  slips  away. " 

XI.  MARRIAGE  MORNING 254 

"  Light  so  low  upon  earth." 
MfSIG  FOIS  THK  ABOVE,  BY  ARTHUR  SULLIVAN, 
APPENDIX 1-54 


»  The  Music  was  componed  to  an  earlier  rerslon  of  this  Seng, 
t  Thw  Song  has  not  been  set  to  Music. 


- 


THE    POET    LAUREATE. 


POEMS. 

(PUBLISHED  1830.) 


TO  THE  QUEEN. 

REVERED,  beloved — O  you  that  hold 

A  nobler-  office  upon  earth 

Than  arms,  or  power  of  brain  or  birth 
Could  give  the  warrior  kings  of  old, 

Victoria,— since  your  Royal  grace 
To  one  of  less  desert  allows 
This  laurel  greener  from  the  brows 

Of  him  that  uttered  nothing  base ; 

And  should  your  greatness,  and  the  care 
That  yokes  with  empire,  yield  you  time 
To  make  demand  of  modern  rhyme 

If  aught  of  ancient  worth  be  there ; 

Then — while  a  sweeter  music  wakes, 
And  thro'  wild  March  the  throstle  calls, 
Where  all  about  your  palace-walls 

The  sunlit  almond-blossom  shakes — 

Take,  Madam,  this  poor  book  of  song; 
For  tho'  the  faults  were  thick  as  dust 
In  vacant  chambers,  I  could  trust 

Your  kindness.    May  you  rule  us  long, 

And  leave  us  rulers  of  your  blood 

As  noble  till  the  latest  day  ! 

May  children  of  our  children  say, 
"She  wrought  her  people  lasting  good; 

"  Her  court  was  pure ;  her  life  serene  ; 

God  gave  her  peace  ;   her  land  reposed  ; 

A  thousand  claims  to  reverence  closed 
In  her  as  Mother,  Wife,  and  Queen ; 

"And  statesmen  at  her  council  met 
Who  knew  the  seasons,  when  to  take 
Occasion  by  the  hand,  and  make 
The  bounds  of  freedom  wider  yet 

"  By  shaping  some  august  decree, 
Which  kept  her  throne  unshaken  still, 
Broad  based  upon  her  people's  will, 

And  compassed  by  the  inviolate  sea." 
MAHCII,  1851. 


CLARIBEL. 

A    MELODY. 

1. 

WHERE  Claribel  low-lieth 
The  breezes  pause  and  die, 

Letting  the  rose-leaves  f:ill : 
But  the  solemn  oak-tree  sishetb, 


Thick-leaved,  ambrosial, 
With  an  ancient  melody 
Of  an  inward  agony, 
Where  Claribel  low-lieth. 

2. 

At  eve  the  beetle  boometh 
Athwart  the  thicket  lone : 

At  iioon  the  wild  bee  hummeth 
About  the  moss'd  headstone : 

At  midnight  the  moon  cometh, 
And  looketh  down  alone. 

3. 

Her  song  the  lintwhite  swelleth, 
The  clear-voiced  mavis  dwelleth. 

The  callow  throstle  lispeth, 
The  slumberous  wave  outwelleth, 

The  babbling  runnel  crispeth, 
The  hollow  grot  replieth 
Where  Claribel  low-lieth. 


LILIAN. 

l. 

AIRY,  fairy  Lilian, 

Flitting,  fairy  Lilian, 
When  I  ask  her  if  she  love  me, 
Clasps  her  tiny  hands  above  me, 

Laughing  all  she  can  ; 
She'll  not  tell  me  if  she  love  me, 

Cruel  little  Lilian. 

2. 

When  my  passion  seeks 

Pleasance  in  love-sighs 
She,  looking  thro1  and  thro'  me 
Thoroughly  to  undo  me, 

Smiling,  never  speaks: 

So  innocent-arch,  so  cunning-simple 

From  beneath  her  gather'd  wimple 

Glancing  with  black-beaded  eyes, 

Till  the  lightning  laughters  dimple 

The  baby-roses  in  her  cheeks; 
Then  away  she  flies. 


Prythee  weep,  May  Lilian ! 
Gayety  without  eclipse 

Wearieth  me,  May  Lilian  : 
Thro'  my  very  heart  it  thrilleth 

When  from  crimson-threaded  lips 
Silver-treble  laughter  trilleth: 

Prythee  weep,  May  Liliau. 


• 


ISA  BEL.—  MARIAN  A. 


4. 

Praying  all  I  can, 
If  prayers  will  iiot  husli  thee, 

Airy  Lilian, 
Like  a  rose-leaf  I  will  crush  thee, 

Fairy  Lilian. 


ISABEL. 

l. 

EVKS  not  down-dropped  nor  over-bright,  but  fed 
With  the  clear-pointed  flame  of  chastity, 
Clear,  without  heat,  undying,  tended  by 

Pure  vestal  thoughts  iu  the  translucent  fane 
Of  her  still  spirit;  locks  not  wide  dispread, 
Madonna-wise  on  either  side  her  head  ; 
Sweet  lips  whereon  perpetually  did  reign 
The  summer  calm  of  golden  charity, 
Were  fixed  shadows  of  thy  fixed  mood, 

Revered  Isabel,  the  crown  and  head, 
The  stately  flower  of  female  fortitude, 

Of  perfect  wifehood,  and  pure  lowlihead. 

2. 

The  intuitive  decision  of  a  bright 
And  thorough-edged  intellect  to  part 

Error  from  crime  ;  a  prudence  to  withhold  ; 

The  laws  of  marriage  character'd  iu  gold 
I'pon  the  blanched  tablets  of  her  heart ; 
A  love  still  burning  upward,  giving  light 
To  read  those  laws ;  an  accent  very  low 
In  blandishment,  but  a  most  silver  flow 

Of  subtle-paced  counsel  iu  distress, 
Right  to  the  heart  and  brain,  tho'  uudescried, 

Winning  its  way  with  extreme  gentleness 
Thro"  all  the  outworks  of  suspicious  pride; 


A  courage  to  endure  and  to  obey : 
A  hate  of  gossip  parlance  and  of  sway, 
Crown'd  Isabel,  thro'  all  her  placid  life, 
The  queen  of  marriage,  a  most  perfect  wife. 

3. 

The  mellowed  reflex  of  a  winter  moon  ; 
A  clear  stream  flowing  with  a  muddy  one, 
Till  in  its  onward  current  it  absorbs 
With  swifter  movement  and  in  purer  light 
The  vexed  eddies  of  its  wayward  brother  ; 
A  leaning  and  upbearing  parasite, 
Clothing  the  stem,  which  else  had  fallen  qnite, 
With  cluster'd  flower-bells  and  ambrosial  orbs 
Of  rich  fruit-bunches  leaning  on  each  other — 
Shadow  forth  thee  ;— the  world  hath  not  another 
(Though  all  her  fairest  forms  are  types  of  thee, 
And  thou  of  God  in  thy  great  charity) 
Of  such  a  fiuish'd  chasten'd  purity. 


MARIANA.  . 

"Mariana  in  the  moated  grange." 

WITH  blackest  moss  the  flower-plots 

WTere  thickly  crusted,  oue  and  all : 

The  rusted  nails  fell  from  the  knots 

That  held  the  peach  to  the  garden-waM. 
The  broken  sheds  look'd  sad  and  strange: 
Unlifted  was  the  clinking  latch ; 
Weeded  and  worn  the  ancient  thatch 
Upon  the  lonely  moated  grange. 

She  only  said,  "My  life  is  dreary, 

He  cometh  not,"  she  said  ; 
She  said,  "I  am  aweary,  aweary, 
I  would  that  I  were  dead  I" 


TO 


-.—MADELINE. 


11 


Her  tears  fell  with  the  dews  at  even ; 

Her  tears  fell  ere  the  dew?  were  dried ; 
She  conld  riot  look  on  the  sweet  heaven, 

Either  at  morn  or  eventide. 
After  the  flitting  of  the  bats, 
When  thickest  dark  did  trance  the  sky, 
She  drew  her  casement-curtain  by, 
Aud  glanced  athwart  the  glooming  flats. 
She  only  said,  "The  night  is  dreary, 

He  cometh  not,"  she  said  ; 
She  said,  "I  am  aweary,  aweary, 
I  would  that  I  were  dead !" 

Upon  the  middle  of  the  night, 

Waking  she  heard  the  night-fowl  crow: 
The  cock  sung  out  an  hour  ere  light: 

From  the  dark  fen  the  oxen's  low 
Came  to  her:  without  hope  of  change, 
In  sleep  she  seemed  to  walk  forlorn, 
Till  cold  winds  woke  the  gray-eyed  morn 
About  the  lonely  moated  grange. 

She  only  said,  "The  day  is  dreary, 

He  cometh  not,"  she  said  ; 
She  said,  "I  am  aweary,  aweary, 
I  would  that  I  were  dead !" 

About  a  stone-cast  from  the  wall 

A  sluice  with  blacken'd  waters  slept, 
And  o'er  it  many,  round  and  small, 
The  cluster'd  marish-mosses  crept. 
Hard  by  a  poplar  shook  alway, 
All  silver-green  with  gnarled  bark: 
For  leagues  no  other  tree  did  mark 
The  level  waste,  the  rounding  gray. 
She  only  said,  "My  life  is  dreary, 

He  cometh  not,"  she  said; 
She  said,  "  I  am  aweary,  aweary, 
I  would  that  I  were  dead !" 

And  ever  when  the  moon  was  low, 

And  the  shrill  winds  were  up  and  away, 
In  the  white  curtain,  to  and  fro, 

She  saw  the  gusty  shadow  sway. 
But  when  the  moon  was  very  low, 
And  wild  winds  bound  within  their  cell, 
The  shadow  of  the  poplar  fell 
Upon  her  bed,  across  her  brow. 

She  only  said,  "The  night  is  dreary, 

He  cometh  riot,"  she  said  ; 
She  said,  "  I  am  aweary,  aweary, 
I  would  that  I  were  dead  !" 

All  day  within  the  dreamy  house, 

The  doors  upon  their  hinges  creak'd; 
The  blue  fly  sung  in  the  pane ;  the  mouse 

Behind  the  mouldering  wainscot  shriek'd, 
Or  from  the  crevice  peered  about. 
Old  faces  glimmered  thro'  the  doors, 
Old  footsteps  trod  the  upper  flocrs, 
Old  voices  called  her  from  without. 
She  only  said,  "My  life  is  dreary, 

He  cometh  not,"  she  said ; 
She  ?a!d,  "I  am  aweary,  aweary, 
1  would  that  I  were  dead  1" 

The  sparrow's  chirrup  on  the  roof, 

The  slow  clock  ticking,  and  the  sound 
Which  to  the  wooing  wind  aloof 

The  poplar  made,  did  all  confound 
Her  sense;  but  most  she  loathed  the  hour 
When  the  thick-moted  sunbeam  lay 
Athwart  the  chambers,  and  the  day 
Was  sloping  toward  his  western  bower. 
Then  said  she,  "  I  am  very  dreary, 

He  will  not  come,"  she  said; 
She  wept,  "I  am  aweary,  aweary, 
O  God,  that  I  were  dead !" 


TO 


i. 


Ci/EAR-nEATVET)  friend,  whose  joyful  scorn, 
Edged  with  sharp  laughter,  cuts  atw.'.in 
The  knots  that  tangle  human  creeds, 
The  wounding  cords  that  bind  and  strain 

The  heart  until  it  bleeds, 
Ray-fringed  eyelids  of  the  morn 

Roof  not  a  glance  so  keen  as  thine: 
If  auirht  of  prophecy  be  mine, 
Thou  wilt  not  live  in  vain. 

2. 
Low-cowering  shall  the  Sophist  sit. 

Falsehood  shall  bare  her  plaited  brow: 

Fair- fronted  Truth  shall  droop  not  now 
With  shrilling  shafts  of  subtle  wit 
Nor  martyr-flames,  nor  trenchant  swords 

Can  do  away  that  ancient  lie; 

A  gentler  death  shall  Falsehood  die, 
Shot  thro'  and  thro'  with  cunning  words. 

3. 

Weak  Truth  a-leaning  on  her  crotch, 
Wan,  wasted  Truth  in  her  utmost  nef  d, 
Thy  kingly  intellect,  shall  feed, 
Until  she  be  an  athlete  bold, 
And  weary  with  a  ringer's  touch 
Those  writhed  limbs  of  lightning  speed ; 

Like  that  strange  angel  which  of  old, 
Until  the  breaking  of  the  light, 
Wrestle'!  with  wandering  Israel, 

Past  Yabbok  brook  the  livelong  night, 
And  heaven's  mazed  signs  stood  still 
I:i  the  dim  tract  of  Penuel. 


MADELINE. 

l. 

THOU  art  not  steeped  in  golden  languors, 
No  tranced  summer  calm  is  thine, 

Ever  varying  Madeline. 
Thro'  light  and  shadow  thon  dost  range, 
Sudden  glances,  sweet  and  strange, 

Delicious  spites  and  darling  angers, 
And  airy  forms  of  flitting  change. 

2. 

Smiling,  frowning,  evermore, 
Thou  art  perfect  in  love-lore. 
Revealings  deep  and  clear  are  thine 
Of  wealthy  smiles ;  but  who  may  know 
Whether  smile  or  frown  be  fleeter? 
Whether  smile  or  frown  be  sweeter, 

Who  may  know? 

Frowns  perfect-sweet  along  the  brow 
Liirht-glooming  over  eyes  divine, 
Like  little  clouds,  sun-fringed,  are  thine, 

Ever  varying  Madeline. 
Thy  smile  and  frown  are  not  aloof 
From  one  another, 
Each  to  each  is  dearest  brother; 
lines  of  the  silken  sheeny  woof 
Momently  shot  into  each  other. 

All  the  mystery  is  thine ; 
Smiling,  frowning,  evermore, 
Thou  art  perfect  in  love-lore, 
Ever  varying  Madeline. 

3. 

A  subtle,  sudden  flame, 
By  veering  passion  fann'd, 

About  thee  breaks  and  dances; 
When  I  would  kiss  thy  hand, 


12 


SONGS.—  RECOLLECTIONS  OF  THE  ARABIAN  NIGHTS. 


The  flush  of  anger'd  shame 

O'erflows  thy  calmer  glances, 

And  o'er  black  brows  drops  down 

A  sudden-curved  frown, 

But  when  I  turn  away, 

Thou,  willing  me  to  stay, 
Wooest  not,  nor  vainly  wrangles! ; 

But,  looking  fixedly  the  while, 
All  my  bounding  heart  entanglest 
In  a  golden-netted  smile; 

Then  in  madness  and  in  bliss, 

If  my  lips  should  dare  to  kiss 

Thy  taper  fingers  amorously. 

Again  thou  blushest  ansrei-ly; 

And  o'er  black  brows  drops  down 

A  sudden-curved  frown. 


SONG.— THE  OWL. 
1. 

WHEN'  cats  run  home  and  light  is  come, 

And  dew  is  cold  upon  the  ground, 
And  the  far-off  stream  is  dumb, 
And  the  whirring  sail  goes  round, 
And  the  whirring  sail  goes  round; 
Alone  and  warming  his  five  wits, 
The  white  owl  in  the  belfry  sits- 

2. 

When  merry  milkmaids  click  the  latch, 
And  rarely  smells  the  new-mowu  hay, 
And  the  cock  hath  sung  beneath  the  thatch 
Twice  or  thrice  his  roundelay, 
Twice  or  thrice  his  roundelay : 
Alone  and  warming  his  five  wits, 
The  white  owl  in  the  belfry  sits. 


SECOND  SONG. 

TO  THE  SAME. 
1. 

THY  tuwhits  are  lull'd  I  wot, 

Thy  tuwhoos  of  yesternight, 
Which  npon  the  dark  afloat, 
So  took  echo  with  delight, 
So  took  echo  with  delight, 
That  her  voice  untuncful  crown, 
Wears  all  day  a  fainter  tone. 

2. 
I  would  mock  thy  chaunt  anew; 

But  I  cannot  mimic  it ; 
Not  a  whit  of  thy  tuwhoo, 
Thee  to  woo  to  thy  tnwhit, 
Thee  to  woo  to  thy  tiiwhit, 
With  a  lengthen'd  loud  halloo, 
Tuwhoo,  tnwhit,  tuwhit,  tuwhoo-o-o. 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  THE  ARABIAN 
NIGHTS. 

WHEN  the  breeze  of  a  joyful  dawn  blew  free 

In  the  silken  sail  of  infancy, 
The  tide  of  time  flow'd  back  with  me, 

The  forward-flowing  tide  of  time : 
And  many  a  sheeny  summer  morn, 
Adown  the  Tigris  I  was  borne, 
By  Bagdat's  shrines  of  fretted  gold, 
High-waited  gardens  green  and  old; 
True  Mussulman  was  I  and  sworn, 

For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haronn  Alraschid. 


Anight  my  shallop,  rustling  thro' 
The  low  and  bloomed  foliage,  drove 
The  fragrant,  glistening  deeps,  and  clove 
The  citron-shadows  in  the  blue: 
By  garden  porches  on  the  brim, 
The  costly  doors  flung  open  wide, 
Gold  glittering  thro'  lamplight  dim. 
And  broider'd  sofas  on  each  side: 
In  sooth  it  was  a'goodly  time, 
For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid, 

Often,  where  clear-stemm'd  platans  guard 
The  outlet,  did  I  turn  away 
The  boat-head  down  a  broad  canal 
From  the  main  river  sluiced,  where  all 
The  sloping  of  the  moon-lit  sward 
Was  damask-work,  and  deep  inlay 
Of  braided  blooms  unmown,  which  crept 
Adown  to  where  the  water  slept. 
A  goodly  place,  a  goodly  time, 
For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

A  motion  from  the  river  won 
Ridged  the  smooth  level,  bearing  o» 
My  shallop  thro'  the  star-strown  calm, 
Until  another  night  iu  night 
I  enter'd,  from  the  clearer  light, 
Imbower'd  vauJts  of  pillar'd  palm, 
Imprisoning  sweets,  which  as  they  clomn 
Heavenward,  were  stay'd  beneath  the  dome 
Of  hollow  boughs. — A  goodly  time, 
For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Still  onward ;  and  the  clear  canal 
Is  rounded  to  as  clear  a  lake. 
From  the  green  rivage  many  a  fall 
Of  diamond  rillets  musical, 
Thro'  little  crystal  arches  low 
Down  from  the  central  fountain's  flow 
Fall'n  silver-chiming,  seem'd  to  shake 
The  sparkling  flints  beneath  the  prow. 
A  goodly  place,  a  goodly  time, 
For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Above  thro'  many  a  bowery  turn 
A  walk  with  vary-color'd  shells 
Wander'd  engraiu'd.    On  either  side 
All  round  about  the  fragrant  marge 
From  fluted  vase,  and  brazen  urn 
In  order,  eastern  flowers  large, 
Some  dropping  low  their  crimson  bells 
Half-closed,  and  others  studded  wide 
With  disks  and  tiars,  fed  the  time 
With  odor  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Far  off,  and  where  the  lemon-grove 
In  closest  coverture  upsprung, 
The  living  airs  of  middle  night 
Died  round  the  bulbul  as  he  sung ; 
Not  he:  but  something  which  possess'd 
The  darkness  of  the  world,  delight, 
Life,  anguish,  death,  immortal  love, 
Ceasing  not,  mingled,  unrepress'd, 
Apart  from  place,  withholding  time, 
But  flattering  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Harouu  Alraschid. 

Black  the  garden-bowers  and  grots 
Slumber'd:  the  solemn  palms  were  ranged 
Above,  unwoo'd  of  summer  wind  : 
A  sudden  splendor  from  behind 
Flnsh'd  all  the  leaves  with  rich  gold-green, 
And,  flowing  rapidly  between 


ODE  TO  MEMORY. 


13 


Their  interspaces,  counterchanged 

The  level  lake  with  diamond-plots 

Of  dark  aud  bright.    A  lovely  time, 

For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 

Of  good  Harouu  Alraschid. 

Dark-blue  the  deep  sphere  overhead, 
Distinct  with  vivid  stars  inlaid, 
Grew  darker  from  that  uuder-flame: 
So,  leaping  lightly  from  the  boat, 
With  silver  anchor  left  afloat, 
In  marvel  whence  that  glory  came 
Upon  me,  as  in  sleep  I  sank 
In  cool  soft  turf  upon  the  bank, 
Entranced  with  that  place  aud  time, 
So  worthy  of  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Thence  thro'  the  garden  I  was  drawn— 
A  realm  of  pleasance,  many  a  mound, 
And  many  a  shadow-cheqner'd  1-iwu 
Fall  of  the  city's  stiHy  sound, 
And  deep  myrrh-thickets  blowing  round 
The  stately  cedar,  tamarisks, 
Thick  rosaries  of  scented  thorn, 
Tall  orient  shrubs,  and  obelisks 

Graven  with  emblems  of  the  time, 

In  honor  of  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

With  dazed  vision  unawares 
From  the  long  alley's  latticed  shade 
Emerged,  I  came  upon  the  great 
Pavilion  of  the  Caliphat. 
Right  to  the  carven  cedarn  doors, 
Flung  inward  over  spangled  floors, 
Broad-based  flights  of  marble  stairs 
Ran  up  with  golden  balustrade, 
After  the  fashion  of  the  time, 
And  humor  of  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

The  fourscore  windows  all  alight 
As  with  the  quintessence  of  flame, 
A  million  tapers  flaring  bright 
From  twisted  silvers  look'd  to  shame 
The  hollow-vaulted  dark,  aud  stream'd 
Upon  the  mooned  domes  aloof 
In  inmost  Bagdat,  till  there  seem'd 
Hundreds  of  crescents  on  the  roof 
Of  night  new-risen,  that  marvellous  time, 
To  celebrate  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Harouu,  Alraschid. 

Then  stole  I  up,  and  trancedly 
Gazed  on  the  Persian  girl  alone, 
Serene  with  argent-lidded  eyes 
Amorous,  and  lashes  like  to  rays 
Of  darkness,  aud  a  brow  of  pearl 
Tressed  with  redolent  ebony. 
In  many  a  dark  delicious  curl, 
Flowing  beneath  her  rose-hued  zone; 
The  sweetest  lady  of  the  time, 
Well  worthy  of  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

S:x  columns,  three  on  either  side, 
Pure  silver,  uuderpropt  a  rich 
Throne  of  the  massive  ore,  from  which 
Dowu-droop'd  in  many  a  floating  fold, 
Eugarlanded  and  diaper'd 
With  inwrought  flowers,  a  cloth  of  gold. 
Thereon,  his  deep  eye  laughter-stirr'd 
With  merriment  of  kingly  pride, 
Sole  star  of  all  that  place  and  time, 
I  saw  him— in  his  golden  prime, 
THE  GOOD  HAUOUX  ALBASCIIID! 


ODE  TO  MEMORY. 

1. 

THOU  who  steal  est  fire, 

From  the  fountains  of  the  past, 

To  glorify  the  present ;  oh,  haste, 
Visit  my  low  desire  '. 

Strengthen  me,  enlighten  me ! 

I  faint  in  this  obscurity, 

Thou  dewy  dawn  of  memory. 

2. 

Come  not  as  thon  earnest  of  late, 
Flinging  the  gloom  of  yesternight 
On  the  white  day ;  but  robed  in  softeu'd  light 

Of  orient  state. 
Whilome  thou  earnest  with  the  morning  mist, 

Even  as  a  maid,  whose  stately  brow 
The  dew-impearled  winds  of  dawn  have  kiss'd, 

When  she,  as  thou, 

Stays  on  her  floating  locks  the  lovely  freight 
Of  overflowing  blooms,  and  earliest  shoots 
Of  orient  green,  giving  safe  pledge  of  fruits, 
Which  in  wintertide  shall  star 
The  black  earth  with  brilliance  rare. 

3. 

Whilome  thon  earnest  with  the  morning  mist, 

And  with  the  evening  cloud, 

Showering  thy  gleaned  wealth  into  my  open  breast, 
(Those  peerless  flowers  which  in  the  rudest  wind 

Never  grow  sere, 
When  rooted  in  the  garden  of  the  mind, 

Because  they  are  the  earliest  of  the  year). 

Nor  was  the  night  thy  shroud. 
In  sweet  dreams  softer  than  unbroken  rest 
Thou  leddest  by  the  hand  thine  infant  Hope. 
The  eddying  of  her  garments  caught  from  thee 
The  light  of  thy  great  presence;  and  the  cope 

Of  the  half-attaiu'd  futurity, 

Though  deep  not  fathomless, 
Was  cloven  with  the  million  stars  which  tremble 
O'er  the  deep  mind  of  dauntless  infancy. 
Small  thought  was  there  of  life's  distress; 
For  sure  she  deem'd  no  mist  of  earth  could  dull 
Those  spirit-thrilling  eyes  so  keen  and  beautiful 
Sure  she  was  nigher  to  heaven's  spheres, 
Listening  the  lordly  music  flowing  from 
The  illimitable  years. 

0  strengthen  me,  enlighten  me ! 

1  faint  in  this  obscurity, 
Thou  dewy  dawn  of  memory. 


Come  forth  I  charge  thee,  arise, 

Thou  of  the  many  tongues,  the  myriad  eyes ! 

Thon  comest  not  with  shows  of  flaunting  vines 

Unto  mine  inner  eye, 

Divinest  Memory! 

Thou  wert  not  nursed  by  the  waterfall 
Which  ever  sounds  and  shines 

A  pillar  of  white  light  upon  the  wall 
Of  purple  cliffs,  aloof  descried : 
Come  from  the  woods  that  belt  the  gray  hillside, 
The  seven  elms,  the  poplars  four 
That  stand  beside  my  fathe-'s  door, 
And  chiefly  from  the  brook  that  loves 
To  purl  o'er  matted  cress  aud  ribbed  sand, 
Or  dimple  in  the  dark  of  rushy  coves, 
DratWng  into  his  narrow  earthen  urn, 

In  every  elbow  and  turn, 
The  fllter'd  tribute  of  the  rough  woodland. 

O  :  hither  lead  thy  feet ! 
Pour  rotiud  mine  ears  the  livelong  bleat 
Of  the  thick-fleeced  sheep  from  wattled  'folds, 

Upon  the  ridged  wolds, 


SONG.— ADELINE. 


When  the  first  matin-soug  hath  waken'd  loud 

Over  the  dark  dewy  earth  forlorn, 

What  time  the  amber  mom 

Forth  gushes  from  beneath  a  low-hnug  cloud. 

5. 

Large  dowries  doth  the  raptured  eye 

To  the  young  spirit  present 
When  first  she  is  wed ; 

And  like  a  bride  of  old 
In  trinmph  led, 

With  music  and  sweet  showers 
Of  festal  flowers, 

Unto  the  dwelling  she  must  sway. 
Well  hast  thou  done,  great  artist  Memory, 

lu  setting  round  thy  first  experiment 

With  royal  frame-work  of  wrought  gold ; 
Needs  must  thou  dearly  love  thy  first  essay, 
And  foremost  in  thy  various  gallery 

Place  it,  where  sweetest  sunlight  falls 

Upon  the  storied  walls ; 

For  the  discovery 

And  newness  of  thine  art  so  pleased  thee, 
That  all  which  thou  hast  drawn  of  fairest 

Or  boldest  since,  but  lightly  weighs 
With  thee  unto  the  love  thou  bearest 
The  first-born  of  thy  genius.    Artist-like, 
Ever  retiring  thou  dost  K&ze 
On  the  prime  labor  of  thine  early  days : 
No  matter  what  the  sketch  might  be ; 
Whether  the  high  field  on  the  bushless  Pike, 
Or  even  a  sand-built  ridge 
Of  heaped  hills  that  mound  the  sea, 
Overblown  with  murmurs  harsh, 
Or  even  a  lowly  cottage  whence  we  see 
Stretch'd  wide  and  wild  the  waste  enormous  marsh, 
Where  from  the  frequent  bridge, 
Like  emblems  of  infinity, 
The  trenched  waters  run  from  sky  to  sky ; 
Or  a  garden  bower'd  close 
With  plaited  alleys  of  the  trailing  rose, 
Long  alleys  falling  down  to  twilight  grots, 
Or  opening  upon  level  plots 
Of  crowned  lilies,  standing  near 
Purple-spiked  lavender ; 
Whither  in  after  life  retired 
From  brawling  storms, 
From  weary  wind, 
With  youthful  fancy  reinspired, 
We  may  hold  converse  with  all  forms 
Of  the  many-sided  mind, 
And  those  whom  passion  hath  not  blinded, 
Snbtle-thoughted,  myriad-minded, 
My  friend,  with  yon  to  live  alone, 
Were  how  much  better  than  to  own 
A  crown,  a  sceptre,  and  a  throne !  4 

0  strengthen  me,  enlighten  me ! 

1  flint  in  this  obscurity, 
Thou  dewy  dawn  of  memory. 


SONG. 
1. 

A  SPIRIT  haunts  the  year's  last  hours 
Dwelling  amid  these  yellowing  bowers: 

To  himself  he  talks ; 
For  at  eventide,  listening  earnestly, 
At  his  work  you  may  hear  him  sob  and  sigh 

In  the  walks ;  » 

Earthward  he  boweth  the  heavy  stalks 
Of  the  mouldering  flowers : 

Heavily  hangs  the  broad  sunflower 

Over  its  grave  i'  the  earth  so  chilly; 
Heavily  hangs  the  hollyhock, 

Heavily  hangs  the  tiger-lily. 


The  air  is  damp,  and  hush'd,  and  close, 

As  a  sick  man's  room  when  he  taketh  repose 

An  hour  before  death ; 

My  very  heart  faints  and  my  whole  soul  grieves 
At  the  moist  rich  smell  of  the  rotting  leaves, 

Aud  the  breath 

Of  the  fading  edges  of  box  beneath, 
And  the  year's  last  rose. 

Heavily  hangs  the  broad  sunflower 

Over  its  grave  i'  the  earth  so  chilly. 
Heavily  hangs  the  hollyhock, 

Heavily  hangs  the  tiger-lily. 


ADELINE. 

1. 
MYSTERY  of  mysteries, 

Faintly  smiling  Adeline, 
Scarce  of  earth  nor  all  divine, 
Nor  unhappy,  nor  at  rest, 
But  beyond  expression  fair 
With  thy  floating  flaxen  hair; 
Thy  rose-lips  and  full  blue  eyes 

Take  the  heart  from  out  my  breast. 
Wherefore  those  dim  looks  of  thine, 
Shadowy,  dreaming  Adeline  ? 

2. 
Whence  that  aery  bloom  of  thine, 

Like  a  lily  which  the  sun 
Looks  thro'  in  his  sad  decline, 

And  a  rose-bush  leans  upon, 
Thou  that  faintly  smilest  still, 

As  a  Naiad  in  a  well, 

Looking  at  the  set  of  day, 
Or  a  phantom  two  hours  old 

Of  a  maiden  past  away, 
Ere  the  placid  lips  be  cold? 
Wherefore  those  faint  smiles  of  thine. 

Spiritual  Adeline? 

3. 

What  hope  or  fear  or  joy  is  thine? 
Who  talketh  with  thee,  Adeline? 
For  sure  thou  art  not  all  alone : 

Do  beating  hearts  of  salient  springs 
Keep  measure  with  thine  own? 

Hast  thou  heard  the  butterflies, 
What  they  say  betwixt  their  wings? 
Or  in  stillest  evenings 
With  what  voice  the  violet  woos 
To  his  heart  the  silver  dews? 
Or  when  little  airs  arise, 
How  the  merry  bluebell  rings 
To  the  mosses  underneath? 
Hast  thou  look'd  upon  the  breath 
Of  the  lilies  at  sunrise? 
Wherefore  that  faint  smile  of  thine, 
Shadowy,  dreaming  Adeline? 

4. 

Some  honey-converse  feeds  thy  mind, 
Some  spirit  of  a  crimson  rose 
In  love  with  thee  forgets  to  close 
His  curtains,  wasting  odorous  sighs 
All  night  long  on  darkness  blind. 
What  aileth  thee?  whom  waitest  thou 
With  thy  soften'd,  shadow'd  brow, 

And  those  dew-lit  eyes  of  thine. 
Thou  faint  smiler,  Adeline? 

5. 
Lovest  thou  the  doleful  wind 

When  thou  gazest  at  the  skies? 


A  CHARACTER.— THE  POET.— THE  POETS  MINI). 


And  vagrant  melodies  the  winds  which  bore 

Them  earthward  till  they  lit ; 
Then,  like  the  arrow-seeds  of  the  field  flower, 
The  fruitful  wit 

Cleaving,  took  root,  and  springing  forth  anew, 

Where'er  they  fell,  behold, 
Like  to  the  mother  plant  in  semblance,  grew 
<  A  flower  all  gold, 

And  bravely  furnish'd  all  abroad  to  fling 

The  winged  shafts  of  truth, 

To  throng  with  stately  blooms  the  breathing  sprtui 
Of  Hope  and  Youth. 

So  many  minds  did  gird  their  orbs  with  beams, 

Tho'  one  did  fling  the  fire. 
Heaven  flow'd  upon  the  soul  in  many  dreams 
Of  high  desire. 

Thus  truth  was  multiplied  on  truth,  the  world 

Like  one  great  garden  show'd, 
And  thro'  the  wreaths  of  floating  dark  upcurl'd, 
Rare  sunrise  flow'd. 

And  Freedom  rear'd  in  that  august  sunrise 

Her  beautiful  bold  brow, 

When  rites  and  fo*nns  before  his  burning  eyes 
Melted  like  snow. 

There  was  no  blood  upon  her  maiden  robes 

Sunn'd  by  those  orient  skies: 
But  round  about  the  circles  of  the  globes 
Of  her  keen  eyes 

And  in  her  raiment's  hem  was  traced  in  flame 

WISDOM,  a  name  to  shake 
All  evil  dreams  of  power — a  sacred  name. 
And  when  she  spake, 

Her  words  did  gather  thunder  as  they  ran, 

And  as  the  lightning  to  the  thunder 
Which  follows  it,  riving  the  spirit  of  man, 
Making  earth  wonder, 

So  was  their  meaning  to  her  words.    No  sword 

Of  wrath  her  right  arm  whirl'd, 
But  one  poor  poet's  scroll,  and  with  hi»  word 
She  shook  the  world. 


THE  POET'S  MIND. 

1. 

VEX  not  thou  the  poet's  mind 

With  thy  shallow  wit : 
Vex  not  thou  the  poet's  mind ; 

For  thou  canst  not  fathom  it. 
Clear  and  bright  it  should  be  ever, 
Flowing  like  a  .crystal  river  ; 
Bright  as  light,  and  clear  as  wind. 


Dark-brow'd  sophist,  come  not  anear: 

All  the  place  is  holy  ground  ; 
Hollow  smile  and  frozen  sneer 

Come  not  here. 
Holy  water  will  I  pour 
Into  every  spicy  flower 
Of  the  laurel-shr'ibs  that  hedge  it  around. 
The  flvwers  would  faint  at  your  cruel  cheer- 
In  your  eye  there  is  death, 
There  is  frost  in  your  breath 
Which  would  blight  the  plants. 
Where  you  stand  you  cannot  hear 
From  the  groves  within 
The  wild-bird's  din. 


Doth  the  low-tongued  Orient 
Wander  from  the  side  of  the  morn, 

Dripping  with  Sabseau  spice 
On  thy  pillow,  lowly  bent 

With  melodious  airs  lovelorn, 
Breathing  Light  against  thy  face, 
While  his  locks  a-droppiug  twined 
Round  thy  neck  in  subtle  ring 
Make  a  carcanet  of  rays, 

And  ye  talk  together  still, 
In  the  language  wherewith  Spring 

Letters  cowslips  on  the  hill? 
Hence  that  look  and  smile  of  thine, 
Spiritual  Adeline. 


A  CHARACTER. 

WITH  a  half-glance  npon  the  sky 
At  night  he  said,  "The  wanderings 
Of  this  most  intricate  Universe 
Teach  me  the  nothingness  of  things." 
Yet  could  not  all  creation  pierce 
Beyond  the  bottom  of  his  eye. 

He  spake  of  beauty:  that  the  dull 

Saw  no  divinity  in  grass, 

Life  in  dead  stones,  or  spirit  in  air; 

Then  looking  as  't  were  in  a  glass, 

He  smooth'd  his  chin  and  sleek'd  his  hair, 

And  said  the  earth  was  beautiful. 

He  spake  of  virtue :  not  the  gods 
More  purely,  when  they  wish  to  charm 
Pallas  and  Juno  sitting  by: 
And  with  a  sweeping  of  the  arm, 
And  a  lack-lustre  dead-blue  eye, 
Devolred  his  rounded  periods. 

Most  delicately  hour  by  hour 
He  canvassed  human  mysteries, 
And  trod  on  silk,  as  if  the  winds 
Blew  his  own  praises  in  his  eyes, 
And  stood  aloof  from  other  minds 
In  impotence  of  fancied  power. 

With  lips  depressed  as  he  were  meek, 
Himself  unto  himself  he  sold  : 
Upon  himself  himself  did  feed : 
Quiet,  dispassionate,  and  cold, 
And  other  than  his  form  of  creed, 
With  chisell'd  features  clear  and  sleek. 


THE  POET. 

TUB  poet  in  a  golden  clime  was  born, 

With  golden  stars  above ; 

Dower'd  with  the  hate  of  hate,  the  scorn  of  scorn, 
The  love  of  love. 

He  saw  thro'  life  and  death,  thro'  good  and  ill 

He  saw  thro'  his  own  soul. 
The  marvel  of  the  everlasting  will, 
An  open  scroll, 

Before  him  lay:  with  echoing  feet  he  threaded 

The  secretest  walks  of  fame: 
The  viewless  arrows  of  his  thoughts  were  headed 
And  wing'd  with  flame, 

Like  Indian  reeds  blown  from  his  silver  tongue, 

And  of  so  fierce  a  flight, 
From  Calpe  unto  Caucasus  they  sung, 
Filling  with  light 


IG 


THE  SEA-FAIRIES.— THE  DESERTED  HOUSE. 


In  the  heart  of  the  garden  the  merry  bird  chants, 
It  would  fall  to  the  ground  if  you  came  in. 

In  the  middle  leaps  a  fountain 
Like  sheet  lightning, 
Ever  brightening 

With  a  low  melodious  thunder; 
All  day  and  all  night  it  is  ever  drawn 

From  the  brain  of  the  purple  mountain 

Which  stands  in  the  distance  yonder: 
It  springs  on  a  level  of  bowery  lawn, 
And  the  mountain  draws  it  from  Heaven  above, 
And  it  sings  a  song  of  undying  love; 
And  yet,  tho'  its  voice  be  so  clear  and  full, 
Yon  never  would  hear  it ;  your  ears  are  so  dull ; 
So  keep  where  you  are:  you  are  foul  with  sin; 
It  would  shrink  to  the  earth  if  you  came  in. 


THE  SEA-FAIRIES. 

SLOW  sail'd  the  weary  mariners  and  saw, 
Betwixt  the  green  brink  and  the  running  foam, 
Sweet  faces,  rounded  arms,  and  bosoms  prest 
To  little  harps  of  gold ;  and  while  they  mused, 
Whispering  to  each  other  half  in  fear, 
Shrill  music  reach'd  them  on  the  middle  sea. 

Whither  away,  whither  away,  whither  away  ?  fly  no 

more. 
Whither  away  from  the  high  green  field,  and  the 

happy  blossoming  shore? 

Day  and  night  to  the  billow  the  fountain  calls; 
Down  shower  the  gambolling  waterfalls 
From  wandering  over  the  lea : 
Ont  of  the  live-green  heart  of  the  dells 
They  freshen  the  silvery-crimson  shells, 
And  thick  with  white  bells  the  clover-hill  swells 
High  over  the  full-toned  sea: 
O  hither,  come  hither  and  furl  your  sails, 
Come  hither  to  me  and  to  me : 
Hither,  come  hither  and  frolic  and  play ; 
Here  it  is  only  the  mew  that  wails ; 
We  will  sing  to  yon  all  the  day : 
Mariner,  mariner,  furl  your  sails, 


For  here  are  the  blissful  downs  and  dales, 
And  merrily  merrily  carol  the  gales, 
And  the  spangle  dances  in  bight  and  bay, 
And  the  rainbow  forms  and  flies  on  the  land 
Over  the  islands  free ; 

And  the  rainbow  lives  in  the  curve  of  the  sand ; 
Hither,  come  hither  and  see ; 
And  the  rainbow  hangs  on  the  poising  wave, 
And  sweet  is  the  color  of  cove  and  cave, 
And  sweet  shall  your  welcome  be: 
O  hither,  come  hither,  and  be  our  lords, 
For  merry  brides  are  we: 

We  will  kiss  sweet  kisses,  and  speak  sweet  words  •• 
O  listen,  listen,  your  eyes  shall  glisten 
With  pleasure  and  love  and  jubilee : 
O  listen,  listen,  your  eyes  shall  glisten 
When  the  sharp  clear  twang  of  the  golden  chords 
Runs  up  the  ridged  sea. 
Who  can  light  on  as  happy  a  shore 
All  the  world  o'er,  all  the  world  o'er  ? 
Whither  away?    listen  and  stay:    mariner,  mariner, 
fly  no  more. 


THE  DESERTED  HOUSE. 

1. 
LIFE  and  Thought  have  gone  away 

Side  by  side, 

Leaving  door  and  windows  wida. 
Careless  tenants  they! 

2. 

All  within  is  dark  as  night: 
In'  the  windows  is  no  light; 
And  no  murmur  at  the  door, 
So  frequent  on  its  hinge  before. 

3. 

Close  the  door,  the  shutters  close, 
Or  thro'  the  windows  we  shall  see 
The  nakedness  and  vacancy 

Of  the  dark  deserted  hou^e. 


"  Lile  and  Thought  h» 
Side  by  side." 


THE  DYING  SWAN.— A  DIRGE.— LOVE  AND  DEATH. 


17 


Come  away :  no  more  of  mirth 
Is  here  or  merry-making  sound. 

The  house  was  builded  of  the  earth, 
And  shall  fall  again  to  ground. 

5. 

Come  away:  for  Life  and  Thought 
Here  no  longer  dwell ; 

But  in  a  city  glorious—, 
A  great  and  distant  city— have  bought 
A  mansion  incorruptible. 
Would  they  could  have  stayed  with  us ! 


THE  DYING  SWAN. 

l. 
THE  plain  was  grassy,  wild  and  bare, 

Wide,  wild,  and  open  to  the  air, 
Which  had  built  up  everywhere 
An  under-roof  of  doleful  gray. 
With  an  inner  voice  the  river  ran, 
Adown  it  floated  a  dying  swan, 

And  londly  did  lament.  . 
It  was  the  middle  of  the  day. 
Ever  the  weary  wind  went  on, 

And  took  the  reed-tops  as  it  went  • 

2. 

Some  blue  pe'aks  in  the  distance  rose, 
And  white  against  the  cold-white  sky, 
Shone  out  their  crowning  snows. 

One  willow  over  the  river  wept, 
And  shook  the  wave  as  the  wind  did  sigh ; 
Above  in  the  wind  was  the  swallow, 
Chasing  itself  at  its  own  wild  will, 
And  far  thro'  the  marish  green  and  still 

The  tangled  water-courses  slept, 
Shot  over  with  purple,  and  green,  and  yellow. 

3. 

The  wild  swan's  death-hymn  took  the  soul 

Of  that  waste  place  with  joy 

Hidden  in  sorrow:  at  first  to  the  ear 

The  warble  was  low,  and  full  and  clear; 

And  floating  about  the  under-sky, 

Prevailing  in  weakness,  the  coronach  stole; 

Sometimes  afar,  and  sometimes  anear, 

Bnt  anon  her  awful,  jubilant  voice, 

With  a  music  strange  and  manifold, 

Flow'd  forth  on  a  carol  free  and  bold; 

As  when  a  mighty  people  rejoice, 

With  shawms,  and  with  cymbals,  and  harps  of  gold, 

And  the  tumult  of  their  acclaim  is  roll'd 

Thro'  the  open  gates  of  the  city  afar, 

To  the  shepherd  who  watcheth  the  evening  star. 

And  the  creeping  mosses  and  clambering  weeds, 

And  the  willow-branches  hoar  and  dank, 

And  the  wavy  swell  of  the  soughing  reeds, 

And  the  wave-worn  horns  of  the  echoing  bank, 

And  the  silvery  marish-flowers  that  throng 

The  desolate  creeks  and  pools  among, 

Were  flooded  over  with  eddying  song. 


A  DIRGE. 

1. 

Now  is  done  thy  long  day's  work; 
Fold  thy  palms  across  thy  breast, 
Fold  thine  arms,  turn  to  thy  rest. 
Let  them  rave. 


Shadows  of  the  silver  birk 
Sweep  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 
Let  them  rave. 


Thee  nor  carketh  care  nor  slander; 
Nothing  but  the  email  cold  worm 
Fretteth  thine  enshrouded  form. 

Let  them  rave. 

Light  and  shadow  ever  wander 
O'er  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rave.     • 


Thou  wilt  not  turn  upon  thy  bed; 
Chanteth  not  the  brooding  bee 
Sweeter  tones  than  calumny? 

Let  them  rave. 

Thou  wilt  never  raise  thine  head 
From  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rave. 

4. 

Crocodiles  wept  tears  for  thee; 

The  woodbine  and  eglatere 

Drip  sweeter  dews  than  traitor's  tear. 

Let  them  rave. 

Rain  makes  music  in  the  tree 
O'er  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rave. 

6. 

Round  thee  blow,  self-pleached  deep, 
Bramble-roses,  faint  and  pale, 
And  long  purples  of  the  dale. 

Let  them  rave. 
These  in  every  shower  creep 
Thro1  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rave. 

6. 

The  gold-eyed  kingcups  fine; 
The  frail  bluebell  peereth  over 
Rare  broidry  of  the  purple  cloT»r. 

Let  them  rave. 

Kings  have  no  such  couch  as  thine, 
As  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rave. 

1. 

Wild  words  wander  here  and  there; 
God's  great  gift  of  speech  abused 
Makes  thy  memory  confused: 

But  let  them  rave. 
The  balm-cricket  carols  clear 
In  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rave. 


LOVE  AND  DEATH. 

WHAT  time  the  mighty  moon  was  gathering  light 

Love  paced  the  thymy  plots  of  Paradise, 

And  all  about  him  roll'd  his  lustrous  eyes; 

When,  turning  round  a  cassia,  full  in  view 

Death,  walking  all  alone  beneath  a  yew, 

And  talking  to  himself,  first  met  his  sight : 

"You  must  begone,"  said  Death,  "these  walks  are 

mine." 

Love  wept  and  spread  his  sheeny  vans  for  flight ; 
Yet  ere  he  parted  said,  "This  hour  is  thine: 
Thou  art  the  shadow  of  lif%  and  as  the  tree 
Stands  in  the  sun  and  shadows  all  beneath, 
So  in  the  light  of  great  eternity 
Life  eminent  creates  the  shade  of  death  ; 
The  shadow  passeth  when  the  tree  shall  fall, 
But  I  shall  reign  forever  over  all." 


18 


THE  BALLAD  OF  ORIANA.— CIRCUMSTANCE.— THE  MERMAN. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  ORIANA. 

MY  heart  is  wasted  with  my  woe, 

Oriana. 
There  is  no  rest  for  me  below, 

Oriana. 

When  the  long  dun  wolds  are  ribb'd  with  snow, 
And  load  the  Norland  whirlwinds  blow, 

Oriana, 
Alone  I  wander  to  and  fro, 

Oriana. 

Ere  the  light  on  dark  was  growing, 

Oriana, 
At  midnight  the  cock  was  crowing, 

Oriana : 

Winds  were  blowing,  waters  flowing, 
We  heard  the  steeds  to  battle  going, 

Oriana ; 
Aloud  the  hollow  bugle  blowing, 

Oriana. 

In  the  yew-wood  black  as  night, 

Oriana, 
Ere  I  rode  into  the  fight, 

Oriaua, 

While  blissful  tears  blinded  my  sight 
By  star-shine  and  by  moonlight, 

Oriaua, 
I  to  thee  my  troth  did  plight, 

Oriana. 

She  stood  upon  the  castle  wall, 

Oriana : 
She  watch'd  my  crest  among  them  all, 

Oriana : 

She  saw  me  fight,  she  heard  me  call, 
When  forth  there  slept  a  foeman  tall, 

Oriana, 
Atween  me  and  the  castle  wall, 

Oriaua,. 

The  bitter  arrow  went  aside, 

Oriana : 
The  false,  false  arrow  went  aside, 

Oriana : 

The  damned  arrow  glanced  aside, 
And  pierced  thy  heart,  my  love,  my  bride, 

Oriana ! 
Thy  heart,  my  life,  my  love,  my  bride, 

Oriana 1 

Oh !  narrow,  narrow  was  the  space, 

Oriana. 
Loud,  loud  rung  out  the  bugle's  brays, 

Oriana. 

Oh !  deathral  stabs  were  dealt  apace, 
The  battle  deepen'd  in  its  place, 

Oriana ; 
But  I  was  down  upon  my  face, 

Oriana. 

They  should  have  stabb'd  me  where  I  lay, 

Oriana ! 
How  could  I  rise  and  come  away, 

Oriana  ? 

How  could  I  look  upon  the  day? 
They  should  have  stabb'd  me  where  I  lay, 

Oriana — 
They  should  have  trod  me  into  clay, 

Oriana. 

O  breaking  heart  that  will  not  break, 

Oriana ! 
D  pale,  pale  face  so  sweet  and  meek, 

Oriana ! 

Thou  smilest,  but  thon  dost  not  speak, 
And  then  the  tears  run  down  my  cheek, 

Oriana : 


What  wantest  thou  ?  whom  dost  thou  seek, 
Oriana  ? 

I  cry  aloud :  none  hear  my  cries, 

Oriana. 
Thou  comest  atween  me  and  the  skies, 

Oriaua. 

I  feel  the  tears  of  blood  arise 
Up  from  my  heart  unto  my  eyes, 

Oriana. 
Within  thy  heart  my  arrow  lies, 

Oriana. 

O  cursed  hand !  O  cursed  blow ! 
Oriana ! 

0  happy  thou  that  liest  low, 

Oriana ! 

All  night  the  silence  seems  to  flow 
Beside  me  in  my  utter  woe, 

Oriana. 
A  weary,  weary  way  I  go, 

Oriana. 

When  Norland  winds  pipe  down  the  sea, 
Oriana, 

1  walk,  I  dare  not  think  of  thee, 

Oriana. 

Thou  liest  beneath  the  greenwood  tree, 
I  dare  not  die  and  come  to  thee, 

Oriana. 
I  hear  the  roaring  of  the  sea, 

Oriana. 


^CIRCUMSTANCE. 

Two  children  in  two  neighbor  villages 
Playing  mad  pranks  along  the  healthy  leas; 
Two  strangers  meeting  at  a  festival ; 
Two  lovers  whispering  by  an  orchard  wall ; 
Two  lives  bound  fast  in  one  with  golden  ease; 
Two  graves  grass-green  beside  a  gray  church-tower, 
Wash'd  with  still  rains  and  daisy-blossomed; 
Two  children  in  one  hamlet  born  and  bred ; 
So  runs  the  round  of  life  from  hour  to  hour. 


THE  MERMAN. 
1. 

WHO  would  be 
A  merman  bold, 
Sitting  alone, 
Singing  alone 
Under  the  sea, 
With  a  crown  of  gold, 
On  a  throne? 

2. 

I  would  be  a  merman  bold ; 
I  would  sit  and  sing  the  whole  of  the  day ; 
I  would  fill  the  sea-halls  with  a  voice  of  power: 
But  at  night  I  would  roam  abroad  and  play 
With  the  mermaids  in  and  out  of  the  rocks, 
Dressing  their  hair  with  the  white  sea-flower; 
And  holding  them  back  by  their  flowing  locks 
I  would  kiss  them  often  under  the  sea, 
And  kiss  them  again  till  they  kiss'd  me 

Laughingly,  laughingly ; 
And  then  we  would  wander  away,  away 
To  the  pale-green  sea-groves  straight  and  high, 
Chasing  each  other  merrily. 

3. 

There  would  be  neither  moon  nor  star; 
But  the  wave  would  make  music  above  us  afar — 
Low  thunder  and  light  in  the  magic  night — 
Neither  moon  Hor  star. 


THE  MERMAID.— SONNET  TO  J.  M.  K.— THE  'LADY  OF  SHALOTT. 


1!) 


We  would  call  aloud  in  the  dreamy  dells, 
•  Call  to  each  other  and  whoop  and  cry 

All  night,  merrily,  merrily ; 

They  would  pelt  me  with  starry  spangles  and  shells, 
Laughing  and  clapping  their  bauds  between, 

All  night,  merrily,  merrily: 
Bat  I  would  throw  to  them  back  in  mine 
Turkis  and  agate  and  almondine : 
Then  leaping  out  upon  them  unseen 
I  would  kiss  them  often  under  the  sea, 
And  kiss  them  again  till  they  kiss'd  me 

Laughingly,  laughingly. 
Oh1  what  a  happy  life  were  mine 
Under  the  hollow-hung  ocean  green ! 
Soft  are  the  moss-beds  under  the  sea; 
We  would  live  merrily,  merrily. 


THE   MERMAID. 

1. 

WHO  would  be 
A  mermaid  fair, 
Singing  alone, 
Combing  her  hair 
Under  tlte  sea, 
In  a  golden  curl 
With  a  comb  of  pearl, 
On  a  throne? 

2. 

I  would  be  a  mermaid  fair; 
I  would  sing  to  myself  the  whole  of  the  day ; 
With  a  comb  of  pearl  I  would  egmb  my  hair ; 
And  still  as  I  comb'd  I  would  sing  and  say, 
"Who  is  it  loves  me?  who  loves  not  me?" 
I  would  comb  my  hair  till  my  ringlets  would  fall, 

Low  adown,  low  adown, 
From  under  my  starry  sea-bud  crown 

Low  adown  and  around, 
And  I  should  look  like  a  fountain  of  gold 

Springing  alone 
With  a  shrill  inner  sound, 

Over  the  throne 
In  the  midst  of  the  hall : 
Till  that  great  sea-snake  under  the  sea 
From  his  coiled  sleeps  in  the  central  deeps 
Would  slowly  trail  himself  sevenfold 
Round  the  hall  where  I  sate,  and  look  in  at  the  gate 


With  hia  large  calm  eyes  for  the  love  of  me. 
And  all  the  mermen  under  the  sea 
Would  feel  their  immortality 
Die  in  their  hearts  for  the  love  of  me. 

3. 

But  at  night  I  would  wander  away,  away, 
I  would  fling  on  each  side  my  low-flowing  locks, 

And  lightly  vault  from  the  throne  and  play 
With  the  mermen  in  and  out  of  the  rocks ; 

We  would  run  to  and  fro,  and  hide  and  seek, 
On  the  broad  sea- wolds  in  the  crimson  shells, 
Whose  silvery  spikes  are  nighest  the  sea, 

But  if  any  came  near  I  would  call,  and  shriek, 

And  adown  the  steep  like  a  wave  I  would  leap 
From  the  diamond-ledges  that  jut  from  the  dells ; 

For  I  would  not  be  kiss'd  by  all  who  would  list, 

Of  the  bold  merry  mermen  under  the  sea ; 

They  would  sue  me,  and  woo  me,  and  flatter  me, 

In  the  purple  twilights  under  the  sea; 

But  the  king  of  them  all  would  carry  me, 

Woo  me,  and  win  me,  and  marry  me, 

In  the  branching  jaspers  under  the  sea; 

Then  all  the  dry  pied  things  that  be 

In  the  hueless  mosses  under  the  sea 

Would  curl  round  my  silver  feet  silently. 

All  .looking  up  for  the  love  of  me. 

And  if  I  should  carol  aloud,  from  aloft 

All  things  that  are  forked,  and  horned,  and  soft 

Would  lean  out  from  the  hollow  sphere  of  the  sea, 

All  looking  down  for  the  love  of  me. 


SOXNET  TO  J.  M.  K. 

MY  hope  and  heart  is  with  thee— thou  wilt  be 

A  latter  Luther,  and  a  soldier-priest 

To  scare  church-harpies  from  the  master's  feast; 

Our  dusted  velvets  have  much  need  of  thee ; 

Thou  art  no  Sabbath-drawler  of  old  saws, 

Distill'd  from  some  worm-canker'd  homily; 

But  spurr'd  at  heart  with  fieriest  energy    . 

To  embattail  and  to  wall  about  thy  cause 

With  iron-worded  proof,  hating  to  hark 

The  humming  of  the  drowsy  pulpit-drone 

Half  God's  good  Sabbath,  while  the  worn-out  clerk 

Brow-beats  his  desk  below.    Thou  from  a  throne 

Mounted  in  heaven  wilt  shoot  into  the  dark 

Arrows  of  lightnings.    I  will  stand  and  mark. 


POEMS. 

'(Published  1832.) 


[This  division  of  this  volnme  was  published  in  the  winter  of  1832.    Some  of  the  poen 
«dded,  which,  with  one  exception,  were  written  in  1833.] 


i  have  been  considerably  altered.    Others  have  been 


THE  LADY  OF  SHALOTT. 


PART  I. 


ON  either  side  the  river  lie 
Long  fields  of  barley  and  of  rye, 
That  clothe  the  wold  and  meet  the  sky; 
And  thro'  the  field  the  road  runs  by 

To  many-towered  Camelot; 
And  np  and  down  the  people  go,     • 
Gazing  where  the  lilies  blow 
Round  an  island  there  below, 

The  island  of  Shalott 

Willows  whiten,  aspens  quiver, 
Little  breezes  dusk  and  shiver 


Thro'  the  wave  that  runs  forever 
By  the  island  in  the  river 

Flowing  down  to  Camelot 
Four  gray  walls,  and  four  gray  towers, 
Overlook  a  space  of  flowers, 
And  the  silent  isle  imbowers 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

By  the  margin,  willow-veil'd, 
Slide  the  heavy  barges  trail'd 
By  slow  horses ;  and  nnhail'd 
The  shallop  flitteth  silken-sail'd 

Skimming  down  to  Camelot: 
But  who  hath  seen  her  wave  her  hand  ? 
Or  at  the  casement  seen  her  stand? 
Or  is  she  known  in  all  the  land, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott  ? 


20 


THE  LADY  OF  SHALOTT. 


The  Lady  of  Shalott." 


Only  reapers,  reaping  early 
In  among  the  bearded  barley, 
Hear  a  song  that  echoes  cheerly 
From  the  river  winding  clearly, 

Down  to  tower'd  Camelot: 
And  by  the  moon  the  reaper  weary, 
Piling  sheaves  in  uplands  airy, 
Listening,  whispers,  "Tis  the  fairy 

Lady  of  Shalott." 


PART  II. 

THEBE  she  weaves  by  night  and  day 
A  magic  web  with  colors  gay. 
She  has  heard  a  whisper  say, 
A  cnrse  is  on  her  if  she  stay 

To  look  down  to  Camelot. 
She  knows  not  what  the  curse  may  be, 
And  so  she  weaveth  steadily, 
And  little  other  care  hath  she, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott 

And  moving  thro"  a  mirror  clear 
That  hangs  before  her  all  the  year, 
Shadows  of  the  world  appear. 
There  she  sees  the  highway  near 

Winding  down  to  Camelot: 
There  the  river  eddy  whirls, 
And  there  the  surly  village-churls, 
And  the  red  cloaks  of  market  girls, 

Pass  onward  from  Shalott. 

Sometimes  a  troop  of  damsels  glad, 
An  abbot  on  an  ambling  pad, 
Sometimes  a  curly  shepherd-lad, 
Or  long-hair'd  page  in  crimson  clad, 

Goes  by  to  tower'd  Camelot; 


And  sometimes  thro'  the  mirror  blue 
The  knights  come  riding  two  and  two: 
She  hath  no  loyal  knight  and  true, 
The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

But  in  her  web  she  still  delights 
To  weave  the  mirror's  magic  sights, 
For  often  thro'  the  silent  nights 
A  funeral,  with  plumes  and  lights, 

And  music,  went  to  Camelot : 
Or  when  the  moon  was  overhead, 
Came  two  young  lovers  lately  wed ; 
"I  am  half-sick  of  shadows,"  said 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 


PART  III. 

A  BOW-SHOT  from  her  bower-eaves, 
He  rode  between  the  barley-sheaves, 
The  sun  came  dazzling  thro'  the  leaves, 
And  flamed  upon  the  brazen  greaves 

Of  bold  Sir  Lancelot. 
A  redcross  knight  forever  kneeled 
To  a  lady  in  his  shield, 
That  sparkled  on  the  yellow  field, 

Beside  remote  Shalott. 

The  gemmy  bridle  glitter'd  free, 
Like  to  some  branch  of  stars  we  see 
Hung  in  the  golden  Galaxy. 
The  bridle  bells  rang  merrily 

As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot: 
And  from  his  blazon'd  baldric  slung 
A  mighty  silver  bugle  hung, 
And  as  he  rode  his  armor  rung, 

Beside  remote  Shalott 

All  in  the  blue  unclouded  weather 
Thick-jewell'd  Bhone  the  eaddle-leather, 


MARIANA  IN  THE  SOUTH. 


21 


The  helmet  and  the  helmet-feather 
Burned  like  one  burning  flame  together, 

As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot 
As  often  thro'  the  purple  night, 
Below  the  starry  clusters  bright, 
Some  bearded  meteor,  trailing  light, 

Moves  over  still  Shalott 

His  broad  clear  brow  in  sunlight  glow'd; 
On  burnish'd  hooves  his  war-horse  trode ; 
From  underneath  his  helmet  flow'd 
His  coal-black  curls  as  on  he  rode, 

As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot 
From  the  bank  and  from  the  river 
He  flashed  into  the  crystal  mirror, 
"  Tirra  lirra,"  by  the  river 

Sang  Sir  Lancelot. 

She  left  the  web,  she  left  the  loom, 
She  made  three  paces  thro'  the  room, 
She  saw  the  water-lily  bloom, 
She  saw  the  helmet  and  the  plume, 

She  look'd  down  to  Camelot. 
Out  flew  the  web  and  floated  wide: 
The  mirror  crack'd  from  side  to  side ; 
"The  curse  is  come  upon  me," cried 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 


PART   IV. 

IN  the  stormy  east-wind  straining, 
The  pale  yellow  woods  were  waning, 
The  broad  stream  in  his  banks  complaining, 
Heavily  the  low  sky  raining 

Over  tower'd  Camelot; 
Down  she  came  and  found  a  boat 
Beneath  a  willow  left  afloat, 
And  round  about  the  prow  she  wrote 

Tlie  Lady  of  Shalott. 

And  down  the  river's  dim  expanse — 
Like  some  bold  seer  in  a  trance, 
•Seeing  all  his  own  mischance — 
With  a  glassy  countenance 

Did  she  look  to  Camelot. 
And  at  the  closing  of  the  day 
She  loosed  the  chain,  and  down  she  lay; 
The  broad  stream  bore  her  far  away, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Lying,  robed  in  snowy  white 
That  loosely  flew  to  left  and  right — 
The  leaves  upon  her  falling  light — 
Thro'  the  noises  of  the  night 

She  floated  down  to  Camelot: 
And  as  the  boat-head  wound  along 
The  willow  hills  and  fields  among, 
They  heard  her  singing  her  last  song, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Heard  a  carol,  mournful,  holy, 
Chanted  loudly,  chanted  lowly, 
Till  her  blood  was  frozen  slowly, 
And  her  eyes  were  darken'd  wholly, 

Turu'd  to  tower'd  Camelot ; 
For  ere  she  reach'd  upon  the  tide 
The  first  house  by  the  water-side, 
Singing  in  her  song  she  died, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott 

Under  tower  and  balcony, 
By  garden-wall  and  gallery, 
A  gleaming  shape  she  floated  by, 
A  corse  between  the  houses  high, 

Silent  into  Camelot, 
Out  upon  the  wharfs  they  came, 
Knight  and  burgher,  lord  and  dame, 
And  round  the  prow  they  read  her  name, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 


Who  is  this?  and  what  is  here? 
And  in  the  lighted  palace  near 
Died  the  sound  of  royal  cheer : 
And  they  cross'd  themselves  for  fear, 

All  the  knights  at  Camelot: 
But  Lancelot  mused  a  little  space: 
He  said,  "  She  has  a  lovely  face : 
God  in  his  mercy  lend  her  grace, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott" 


MARIANA  IN  THE  SOUTH. 

WITH  one  black  shadow  at  its  feet, 

The  house  thro'  all  the  level  shinas, 
Close-latticed  to  the  brooding  heat, 

And  silent  in  its  dusty  vines: 
A  faint-blue  ridge  upon  the  right, 
An  empty  river-bed  before, 
And  shallows  on  a  distant  shore, 
In  glaring  sand  and  inlets  bright. 
But  "  Ave  Mary,"  made  she  moan, 

And  "  Ave  Mary,"  night  and  morn, 

And  "Ah,"  she  sang,  "to  be  all  alont, 

To  live  forgotten,  and  love  forlorn." 

She,  as  her  carol  sadder  grew, 

From  brow  and  bosom  slowly  down 
Thro'  rosy  taper  fingers  drew 

Her  streaming  curls  of  deepest  brown 
To  left  and  right,  and  made  appear, 
Still-lighted  in  a  secret  shrine, 
Her  melancholy  eyes  divine, 
The  home  of  woe  without  a  tear, 
And  "Ave  Mary,"  was  her  moan, 

"Madonna,  sad  is  night  and  morn  ;* 

And  "  Ah,"  she  sang,  "  to  be  all  alone, 

To  live  forgotten,  and  love  forlorn." 

Till  all  the  crimson  changed,  and  past 

Into  deep  orange  o'er  the  sea, 
Low  on  her  knees  herself  she  cast, 
Before  Our  Lady  murmur'd  she; 
Complaining,  "Mother,  give  me  grace 
To  help  me  of  my  weary  load," 
And  on  the  liquid  mirror  glow'd 
The  clear  perfection  of  her  face. 

"  Is  this  the  form,"  she  made  her  moan, 

"That  won  his  praises  night  and  morn  t' 
And  "  Ah,"  she  said,  "  but  I  w-ake  alone, 
I  sleep  forgotten,  I  wake  forlorn." 

Nor  bird  would  sing,  nor  lamb  would  'bleat, 

Nor  any  cloud  would  cross  the  vault, 
But  day  increased  from  heat  to  heat, 

On  stony  drought  and  steaming  salt; 
Till  now  at  noon  she  slept  again, 
And  seem'd  knee-deep  in  mountain  grass, 
And  heard  her  native  breezes  pass, 
And  runlets  babbling  down  the  glen. 
She  breathed  in  sleep  a  lower  moan, 

And  murmuring,  as  at  night  and  morn, 
She  thought,  "My  spirit  is  here  alone, 
Walks  forgotten,  and  is  forlorn." 

Dreaming,  she  knew  it  was  a  dream: 
She  felt  he  was  and  was  not  there. 
She  woke :  the  babble  of  the  stream 
Fell,  and  without  the  steady  glare 
Shrank  one  sick  willow  sere  and  small. 
The  river-bed  was  dusty-white ; 
And  all  the  furnace  of  the  light 
Struck  up  against  the  blinding  wall. 
She  whisper'd,  with  a  stifled  moan,; 

More  inward  than  at  night  or  morn, 
"  Sweet  Mother,  let  me  not  here  alone 
Live  forgotten  and  die  forlorn." 


22 


ELEANORE. 


And,  rising,  from  her  bosom  drew 

Old  letters,  breathing  of  her  worth, 
For  "  Love,"  they  said,  "  must  needs  be  true, 

To  what  is  loveliest  upon  earth." 
An  image  seem'd  to  pass  the  door, 
To  look  at  her  with  slight,  and  say, 
"But  now  thy  beauty  flows  away, 
So  be  alone  forevermore." 

"  O  cruel  heart,"  she  changed  her  tone, 
"And  cruel  love,  whose  end  is  scorn, 
Is  this  the  end  to  be  left  alone, 
To  live  forgotten,  and  die  forlorn !" 

But  sometimes  in  the  falling  day 

An  image  see'm'd  to  pass  the  door, 
To  look  into  her  eyes  and  say, 

"  But  thou  shall  be  alone  no  more." 
And  flaming  downward  over  all 
From  heat  to  heat  the  day  decreased, 
And  slowly  rounded  to  the  east 
The  one  black  shadow  from  the  wall. 

"The  day  to  night,"  she  made  her  moan, 
"The  day  to  night,  the  night  to  morn, 
And  day  and  night  I  am  left  alone 
To  live  forgotten,  and  love  forlorn." 

At  eve  a  dry  cicala  snng, 

There  came  a  sound  as  of  the  sea ; 
Backward  the  latticed-bliud  she  flung, 

And  lean'd  upon  the  balcony. 
There  all  in  spaces  rosy-bright 
Large  Hesper  glitter'd  on  her  tears, 
And  deepening  through  the  silent  spheres, 
Heaven  over  Heaven  rose  the  night. 

And  weeping  then  she  made  her  moan, 

"  The  night  comes  on  that  knows  not  morn, 
When  I  shall  cease  to  be  all  alone, 
To  live  forgotten,  and  love  forlorn." 


ELEANORE. 


THT  dark  eyes  open'd  not, 

Nor  first  reveal'd  themselves  to  English  air, 

For  there  is  nothing  here, 

Which,  from  the  outward  to  the  inward  brought, 
Moulded  thy  baby  thought 
Far  off  from  human  neighborhood, 

Thou  wert  born,  on  a  summer  morn, 
A  mile  beneath  the  cedar-wood. 
Thy  bounteous  forehead  was  not  fann'd 

With  breezes  from  our  oaken  glades, 
But  thou  wert  nursed  in  some  delicious  land 

Of  lavish  lights,  and  floating  shades: 
And  flattering  thy  childish  thought 

The  oriental  fairy  brought, 

At  the  moment  of  thy  birth, 
From  old  well-heads  of  haunted  rills, 
And  the  hearts  of  purple  hills, 

And  shadow'd  coves  on  a  sunny  shore, 
The  choicest  wealth  of  all  the  earth, 

Jewel  or  shell,  or  starry  ore, 

To  deck  thy  cradle,  Elefmore. 

2. 

Or  the  yellow-banded  bees, 
Thro'  half-open  lattices 
Coming  in  the  scented  breeze, 
Fed  thee,  a  child,  lying  alone, 

With  whitest  honey  in  fairy  gardens  cull'd- 
A  glorious  child,  dreaming  alone, 
In  silk-soft  folds,  upon  yielding  down, 
With  the  hum  of  swarming  bees 
Into  dreamful  slumber  InlPd. 


3. 

Who  may  minister  to  thee  ? 
Summer  herself  should  minister 

To  thee,  with  fruitage  golden-rinded 
On  golden  salvers,  or  it  may  be, 
Youngest  Autumn,  in  a  bower 
Grape-thicken'd  from  the  light,  and  blinded 
With  many  a  deep-hued  bell-like  flower 
Of  fragrant  trailers,  when  the  air 
Sleepeth  over  all  the  heaven, 
And  the  crag  that  fronts  the  Even, 
All  along  the  shadowing  shore, 
Crimsons  over  an  inland  mere, 
Eleanore  1 

4. 

How  may  full-sail'd  verse  express, 
How  may  measured  words  adore 

The  full-flowing  harmony 
Of  thy  swan-like  stateliness, 

Eleanore  ? 

The  luxuriant  symmetry 
Of  thy  floating  gracefulness, 

Eleanore  ? 

Every  turn  and  glance  of  thine, 
Every  lineament  divine, 

Eleanore, 

And  the  steady  sunset  glow, 
That  stays  upon  thee?    For  in  thee 
Is  nothing  sudden,  nothing  single. 
Like  two  streams  of  incense  free 

From  one  censer,  in  one  shrine, 
Thought  and  motion  mingle, 
Mingle  ever.    Motions  flow 
To  one  another,  even  as  tho1 
They  were  modulated  so 

To  an  unheard  melody, 
Which  lives  about  thee,  and  a  sweep 

Of  richest  pauses,  evermore 
Drawn  from  each  other  mellow-deep; 
Who  may  express  thee,  Eleanore  ? 

5. 

I  stand  before  thee,  Eleanore ; 

I  see  thy  beauty  gradually  unfold, 
Daily  and  hourly,  more  and  more. 
I  muse,  as  in  a  trance,  the  while 

Slowly,  as  from  a  cloud  of  gold, 
Comes  out  thy  deep  ambrosial  smile. 
I  muse,  as  in  a  trance,  whene'er 

The  languors  of  thy  love-deep  eyes 
Float  on  to  me.    I  would  I  were 

So  tranced,  so  rapt  in  ecstasies, 
To  stand  apart,  and  to  adore, 
Gazing  on  thee  forevermore, 
Serene,  imperial  Eleanore ! 

6. 

Sometimes,  with  most  intensity 

Gazing,  I  seem  to  see 

Thought  folded  over  thought,  smiling  asleep, 

Slowly  awaken'd,  grow  so  full  and  deep 

In  thy  large  eyes,  that,  overpower'd  quite, 

I  cannot  veil,  or  droop  my  sight, 

But  am  as  nothing  in  its  light: 

As  tho'  a  star,  in  inmost  heaven  set, 

Ev'n  while  we  gaze  on  it, 

Should  slowly  round  his  orb,  and  slowly  grow 

To  a  full  face,  there  like  a  sun  remain 

Fix'd— then  as  slowly  fade  again, 

And  draw  itself  to  what  it  was  before , 
So  full,  so  deep,  so  slow, 
Thought  seems  to  come  and  go 

In  thy  large  eyes,  imperial  Eleuuore. 

1. 

As  thunder-clouds,  that,  hung  on  high, 
RooFd  the  world  with  doubt  and  fear. 


THE  MILLER'S  DAUGHTER. 


23 


Floating  thro1  an  evening  atmosphere, 
Grow  golden  all  about  the  sky; 
In  thee  all  passion  becomes  passionless, 
Touch'd  by  thy  spirit's  mellowness, 
Losing  his  flre  and  active  might 

In  a  silent  meditation, 
Falling  into  a  still  delight, 

And  luxury  of  contemplation  : 
As  waves  that  up  a  quiet  cove 
Rolling  slide,  and  lying  still 

Shadow  forth  the  banks  at  will: 
Or  sometimes  they  swell  and  move, 
Pressing  up  against  the  land, 
With  motions  of  the  outer  sea: 
And  the  self-same  influence 
Controlleth  all  the  soul  and  sense 
Of  Passion  gazing  upon  thee. 
His  bow-string  slacken'd.  languid  Love, 
Leaning  his  cheek  upon  his  hand, 
Droops  both  his  wings,  regarding  thee, 
And  so  would  languish  evermore, 
Serene,  imperial  Eleanore. 


But  when  I  see  thee  roam,  with  tresses  unconflned, 
While  the  amorous,  odorous  wind 
Breathes  low  between  the  sunset  and  the  moon ; 

Or,  in  a  shadowy  saloon, 
On  silken  curtains  half  reclined ; 

I  watch  thy  grace;  and  in  its  place 
My  heart  a  charmed  slumber  keeps, 

While  I  muse  upon  thy  face; 
And  a  languid  flre  creeps 

Thro'  my  veins  to  all  my  frame, 
Dissolvingly  and  slowly:  soon 

From  thy  rose-red  lips  MY  name 
Floweth ;  and  then,  as  in  a  swoon, 
With  dinning  sound  my  ears  are  rife, 
My  tremulous  tongue  faltereth, 
I  lose  my  color,  I  lose  my  breath, 
I  drink  the  cup  of  a  costly  death, 
Brimm'd  with  delirious  draughts  of  wannest  life. 
I  die  with  my  delight,  before 
I  hear  what  I  would  hear  from  thee; 
Yet  tell  my  name  again  to  me, 
I  would  be  dying  evermore, 
So  dying  ever,  Eleanore. 


THE  MILLER'S  DAUGHTER. 

I  BEE  the  wealthy  miller  yet, 

His  double  chin,  his  portly  size, 
And  who  that  knew  him  could  forget 

The  busy  wrinkles  round  his  eyes? 
The  slow  wise  smile  that,  round  about 

His  dusty  forehead  dryly  curl'd, 
Seem'd  half-within  and  half-without, 

And  full  of  dealings  with  the  world? 

In  yonder  chair  I  see  him  sit, 

Three  fingers  round  the  old  silver  cup — 
I  see  his  gray  eyes  twinkle  yet 

At  his  own  jest — gray  eyes  lit  up 
With  summer  lightnings  of  a  soul 

So  full  of  summer  warmth,  so  glad, 
So  healthy,  sound,  and  clear  and  whole, 

His  memory  scarce  can  make  me  sad. 

Yet  fill  my  glass:  give  me  one  kiss: 

My  own  sweet  Alice,  we  must  die. 
There's  somewhat  in  this  world  amiss 

Shall  be  unriddled  by-and-by. 
There's  somewhat  flows  to  us  in  life, 

But  more  is  taken  quite  away. 
Pray,  Alice,  pray,  my  darling  wife, 

That  we  may  die  the  self-same  day. 


Have  I  not  found  a  happy  earth? 

I  least  should  breathe  a  thought  of  pain. 
Would  God  renew  me  from  my  birth 

I'd  almost  live  my  life  again. 
So  sweet  it  seems  with  thee  to  walk, 

And  once  again  to  woo  thee  mine- 
It  seems  in  after-dinner  talk 

Across  the  walnuts  and  the  wine — 

To  be  the  long  and  listless  boy 

Late-left  an  orphan  of  the  squire, 
Where  this  old  mansion  mounted  high 

Looks  down  upon  the  village  spire: 
For  .even  here,  where  I  and  you 

Have  lived  and  loved  alone  so  long, 
Each  morn  my  sleep  was  broken  thro' 

By  some  wild  sftylark's  matin-song. 

And  oft  I  heard  the  tender  dove 

In  firry  woodlands  making  moan; 
But  ere  I  saw  your  eyes,  my  love, 

I  had  no  motion  of  my  own. 
For  scarce  my  life  with  fancy  play'd 

Before  I  dream'd  that  pleasant  dream- 
Still  hither  thither  idly  sway'd 

Like  those  long  mosses  in  the  stream. 

Or  from  the  bridge  I  leau'd  to  hear 

The  milldam  rushing  down  with  noise, 
And  see  the  minnows  everywhere 

In  crystal  eddies  glance  and  poise, 
The  tall  flag-flowers  when  they  sprung 

Below  the  range  of  stepping-stones, 
Or  those  three  chestnuts  near,  that  hung 

In  masses  thick  with  milky  cones. 

But,  Alice,  what  an  hour  was  that, 

When  after  roving  in  the  woods 
('Twas  April  then),  I  came  and  sat 

Below  the  chestnuts,  when  their  buds 
Were  glistening  to  the  breezy  blue; 

And  on  the  slope,  an  absent  fool, 
I  cast  me  down,  nor  thought  of  you, 

But  angled  in  the  higher  pool. 

A  love-song  I  had  somewhere  read, 

An  echo  from  a  measured  strain, 
Beat  time  to  nothing  in  my  head 

From  some  odd  corner  of  the  brain. 
It  haunted  me,  the  morning  long, 

With  weary  sameness  in  the  rhymes, 
The  phantom  of  a  silent  song, 

That  went  and  came  a  thousand  times. 

Then  leapt  a  trout    In  lazy  mood 

I  watch'd  the  little  circles  die; 
They  past  into  the  level  flood, 

And  there  a  vision  caught  my  eye; 
The  reflex  of  a  beauteous  form, 

A  glowing  arm,  a  gleaming  neck, 
As  when  a  sunbeam  wavers  warm 

Within  the  dark  and  dimpled  beck. 

For  you  remember,  you  had  set, 

That  morning,  on  the  casement's  edge 
A  long  green  box  of  mignonette, 

And  you  were  leaning  from  the  ledge  •. 
And  when  I  raised  my  eyes,  above 

They  met  with  two  so  full  and  bright- 
Such  eyes  1  I  swear  to  you,  my  love, 

That  these  have  never  lost  their  light. 

I  loved,  and  love  dispell'd  the  fear 
That  I  should  die  an  early  death ; 

For  love  possess'd  the  atmosphere, 
And  fill'd  the  breast  with  purer  breath 

My  mother  thought,  What  ails  the  boy  ? 
For  I  was  alter'd,  and  began 


THE  MILLER'S  DAUGHTER. 


To  move  about  the  house  with  joy, 
And  with  the  certain  step  of  man. 

I  loved  the  brimming  wave  that  swam 

Thro'  quiet  meadows  round  the  mill, 
The  sleepy  pool  above  the  dam, 

The  pool  beneath  it  never  still, 
The  meal-sacks  on  the  whiten'd  floor, 

The  dark  round  of  the  dripping  wheel, 
The  very  air  about  the  door 

Made  misty  with  the  floating  meal. 

And  oft  in  ramblings  on  the  wold, 

When  April  nights  began  to  blow, 
And  April's  crescent  glimmer'd  cold, 

I  saw  the  village  lights  below; 
I  knew  your  taper  far  away, 

And  full  at  heart  of  trembling  hope, 
From  off  the  wold  I  came,  and  lay 

Upon  the  freshly-flower'd  slope. 

The  deep  brook  groan'd  beneath  the  mill: 
And  "by  that  lamp,"  I  thought,  "she  sits!" 

The  white  chalk-quarry  from  the  hill 
Gleamed  to  the  flying  moon'  by  fits. 

"O  that  I  were  beside  her  now! 

0  will  she  answer  if  I  call  ? 

0  would  she  give  me  vow  for  vow, 
Sweet  Alice,  if  I  told  her  all  ?" 

Sometimes  I  saw  you  sit  and  spin; 

And,  in  the  pauses  of  the  wind, 
Sometimes  I  heard  you  sing  within ; 

Sometimes  your  shadow  cross'd  the  blind. 
At  last  you  rose  and  moved  the  light, 

And  the  long  shadow  of  the  chair 
Flitted  across  into  the  night, 

And  all  the  casement  darken'd  there. 

But  when  at  last  I  dared  to  speak, 

The  lanes,  you  know,  were  white  with  May, 
Your  ripe  lips  moved  not,  but  your  cheek 

Flush'd  like  the  coming  of  the  day ; 
And  so  it  was— half-sly,  half-shy, 

You  would,  and  would  not,  little  one ! 
Although  I  pleaded  tenderly, 

And  you  and  I  were  all  alone. 

And  slowly  was  my  mother  brought 

To  yield  consent  to  my  desire: 
She  wish'd  me  happy,  but  she  thought 

1  might  have  look'd  a  little  higher; 
•And  I  was  young — too  young  to  wed: 

"Yet  must  I  love  her  for  your  sake; 
Go  fetch  your  Alice  here,"  she  said  : 
Her  eyelid  quiver'd  as  she  spake. 

And  down  I  went  to  fetch  my  bride: 

But,  Alice,  yon  were  ill  at  ease ; 
This  dress  and  that  by  turns  you  tried, 

Too  fearful  that  yon  should  not  please. 

1  loved  you  better  for  your  fears, 

I  knew  you  conld  not  look  but  well ; 
And  dews,  that  would  have  fall'n  in  tears, 
I  kiss'd  away  before  they  fell. 

I  watch'd  the  little  flntterings, 

The  doubt  my  mother  would  not  see; 
She  spoke  at  large  of  many  things, 

And  at  the  last  she  spoke  of  me ; 
And  turning  look'd  upon  your  face, 

As  near  this  door  you  sat  apart, 
And  rose,  and,  with  a  silent  grace 

Approaching,  press'd  you  heart  to  heart. 

•  Ah,  well— but  sing  the  foolish  song 
I  gave  you,  Alice,  on  the  day 


When,  arm  in  arm,  we  went  along, 
A  pensive  pair,  and  you  were'gay 

With  bridal  flowers — that  I  may  seem, 
As  in  the  nights  of  old,  to  lie 

Beside  the  mill-wheel  in  the  stream, 
While  those  full  chestnuts  whisper  by. 

It  is  the  miller's  daughter, 

And  she  is  grown  so  dear,  so  dear, 
That  I  would  be  the  jewel 

That  trembles  at  her  ear: 
For  hid  in  ringlets  day  and  night, 
I'd  touch  her  neck  so  warm  and  whits. 

And  1  would  be  the  girdle 
About  her  dainty,  dainty  waist, 

And  her  heart  would  beat  against  me, 
In  sorrow  and  in  rest: 

And  I  should  know  if  it  beat  right, 

I'd  clasp  it  round  so  close  and  tight. 

And  I  would  be  the  necklace, 
And  all  day  long  to  fall  and  ris« 

Upon  her  balmy  bosom, 
With  her  laughter  or  her  sighs, 

And  I  would  lie  so  light,  so  light, 

I  scarce  should  be  unclasp'd  at  night 


A  trifle,  sweet !  which  true  love  spells- 
True  love  interprets — right  alone. 

His  light  upon  the  letter  dwells, 
For  all  the  spirit  is  his  own. 

So,  if  I  waste  words  now,  in  truth, 
You  must  blame  Love.    His  early  rage 

Had  force  to  make  me  rhyme  in  youth, 
And  makes  me  talk  too  much  in  age. 

And  now  those  vivid  hours  are  gone, 

Like  mine  own  life  to  me  fhou  art, 
Where  Past  and  Present,  wound  in  one, 

Do  make  a  garland  for  the  heart: 
So  sing  that  other  song  I  made, 

Half-anger'd  with  my  happy  lot, 
The  day,  when  in  the  chestnut-shade 

I  found  the  blue  Forget-me-not. 


Love  that  hath  us  it.  the  net. 
Can  he  pass,  and  we  forget  ? 
Many  suns  arise  and  set. 
Many  a  chance  the  years  beget 
Love  the  gift  is  Love  the  debt, 
Even  so. 

Love  is  hurt  with  jar  and  fret. 
Love  is  made  a  vague  regret. 
Eyes  with  idle  tears  are  wet. 
Idle  habit  links  us  yet. 
What  is  love  f  for  we  forget : 
Ah,  no !  no ! 


Look  thro'  mine  eyes  with  thine.     True  wife, 

Round  my  true  heart  thine  arms  entwine ; 
My  other  dearer  life  in  life, 

Look  thro'  ray  very  soul  with  thine ! 
Untouch'd  with  any  shade  of  years, 

May  those  kind  eyes  forever  dwell ! 
They  have  not  shed  a  many  tears, 

Dear  eyes,  since  first  I  knew  them  well. 

Yet  tears  they  shed :  they  had  their  part 

Of  sorrow :  for  when  time  was  ripe, 
The  still  affection  of  the  heart 

Became  an  outward  breathing  type, 
That  into  stillness  past  again, 

And  left  a  want  unknown  before ; 
Although  the  loss  that  brought  us  pain, 

That  loss  but  made  us  love  the  more, 


FATIMA.—  (ENONE. 


25 


With  farther  lockings  on.    The  kiss, 

The  woven  arms,  seem  but  to  be 
Weak  symbols  of  the  settled  bliss, 

The  comfort,  I  have  found  in  thee : 
put  that  God  bless  thee,  dear— who  wrought 

Two  spirits  to  one  equal  mind — 
With  blessings  beyond  hope  or  thought, 

With  blessings  which  no  words  can  find. 

Arise,  and  let  us  wander  forth, 

To  yon  old  mill  across  the  wolds ; 
For  look,  the  sunset,  south  and  north, 

Winds  all  the  vale  in  rosy  folds, 
And  fires  your  narrow  casement  glass, 

Touching  the  sullen  pool  below : 
On  the  chalk-hill  the  bearded  grass 

Is  dry  and  dewless.    Let  us  go. 


FATIMA. 

O  LOVE,  Love,  Love  !  O  withering  might  1 

0  sun,  that  from  thy  noonday  height 
Shudderest  when  I  strain  my  sight, 
Throbbing  thro'  all  thy  heat  and  light, 

Lo,  falling  from  my  constant  mind, 

Lo,  parch'd  and  wither'd,  deaf  and  blind, 

I  whirl  like  leaves  in  roaring  wind. 

Last  night  I  wasted  hateful  hours 
Below  the  city's  eastern  towers: 

1  thirsted  for  the  brooks,  the  showers : 
I  roll'd  among  the  tender  flowers- 

I  crush'd  them  on  my  breast,  my  month  : 
I  look'd  athwart  the  burning  drouth 
Of  that  long  desert  to  the  south. 

Last  night,  when  some  one  spoke  his  name, 
From  my  swift  blood  that  went  and  came 
A  thousand  little  shafts  of  flame 
Were  shiver'd  in  my  narrow  frame. 

0  Love,  O  fire !  once  he  drew 

With  one  long  kiss  my  whole  soul  thro' 
My  lips,  as  sunlight  drinketh  dew. 

Before  he  mounts  the  hill,  I  know 
He  cometh  quickly :  from  below 
Sweet  gales,  as  from  deep  gardens,  blow 
Before  him,  striking  on  my  brow. 
In  my  dry  brain  my  spirit  soon, 
Down-deepening  from  swoon  to  swoon, 
Faints  like  a  dazzled  morning  moon. 

The  wind  sounds  like  a  silver  wire, 
And  from  beyond  the  noon  a  fire 
Is  pour'd  upon  the  hills,  and  nigher 
The  skies  stoop  down  in  their  desire ; 
And,  isled  in  sudden  seas  of  light, 
Sly  heart,  pierced  thro'  with  fierce  delight, 
Bursts  into  blossom  in  his  sight 

My  whole  soul  waiting  silently, 
All  naked  in  a  sultry  sky, 
Droops  blinded  with  his  shining  eye: 
I  wiU  possess  him  or  will  die. 

1  will  grow  round  him  in  his  place, 
Grow,  live,  die  looking  on  his  face, 
Die,  dying  clasp'd  in  his  embrace. 


(ENONE. 

THERE  lies  a  vale  in  Ida,  lovelier 

Than  all  the  valleys  of  Ionian  hills. 

The  swjmming  vapor  slopes  athwart  the  glen, 

Puts  forth  an  arm,  and  creeps  from  pine  to  pine, 

And  loiters,  slowly  drawn.    On  either  hand 

The  lawns  and  meadow-ledges  midway  down 


Hang  rich  in  flowers,  and  far  below  them  roars 
The  long  brook'  falling  thro'  the  clov'n  ravine 
In  cataract  after  cataract  to  the  sea. 
Behind  the  valley  topmost  Gargarus 
Stands  up  and  takes  the  morning:  but  in  front 
The  gorges,  opening  wide  apart,  reveal 
Troas  and  Ilion's  column'd  citadel, 
The  crown  of  Troas. 

Hither  came  at  noon 
Mournful  (Enone,  wandering  forlorn 
Of  Paris,  once  her  playmate  on  the  hills. 
Her  cheek  had  lost  the  rose,  and  round  her  necK 
Floated  her  hair  or  seem'd  to  float  in  rest. 
She,  leaning  on  a  fragment  twined  with  vine, 
Sang  to  the  stillness,  till  the  mountain-shade 
Sloped  downward  to  her  seat  in  the  upper  clifE 

"  O  mother  Ida,  many-fountain'd  Ida, 
Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 
For  now  the  noonday  quiet  holds  the  hill : 
The  grasshopper  is  silent  in  the  grass: 
The  lizard,  with  his  shadow  on  the  stone, 
Rests  like  a  shadow,  and  the  cicala  sleeps. 
The  purple  flowers  droop:  the  golden  bee 
Is  lily-cradled:  I  alone  awake. 
My  eyes  are  full  of  tears,  my  heart  of  IOVP, 
My  heart  is  breaking,  and  my  eyes  are  dim, 
And  I  am  all  aweary  of  my  life. 

"  O  mother  Ida,  many-fountain'd  Ida, 
Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 
Hear  me  O  Earth,  hear  me  O  Hills,  O  Caves 
That  house  the  cold-crown'd  snake!    O  mountain 

brooks, 

I  am  the  daughter  of  a  River-God, 
Hear  me,  for  I  will  speak,  and  build  up  all 
My  sorrow  with  my  song,  as  yonder  walls 
Rose  slowly  to  a  music  slowly  breathed, 
A  cloud  that  gather'd  shape:  for  it  may  be 
That,  while  I  speak  of  it,  a  little  while 
My  heart  may  wander  from  its  deeper  woe- 

"O  mother  Ida,  many-fonntain'd  Ida, 
Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 
I  waited  underneath  the  dawning  hills, 
Aloft  the  mountain  lawn  was  dewy-dark, 
And  dewy-dark  aloft  the  mountain  pine: 
Beautiful  Paris,  evil-hearted  Paris, 
Leading  a  jet-black  goat  white-horn'd,  white-hooved, 
Came  up  from  reedy  Simois  all  alone. 

"O  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 
Far-off  the  torrent  call'd  me  from  the  cleft : 
Far  up  the  solitary  morning  smote 
The  streaks  of  virgin  snow.    With  down-dropt  eyes 
I  sat  alone:  white-breasted  like  a  star 
Fronting  the  dawn  he  moved ;  a  leopard  skin 
Droop' d  from  his  shoulder,  but  his  sunny  hair 
Cluster'd  about  his  temples  like  a  God's : 
And  his  cheek  brighten'd  as  the  foam-bow  brightens 
When  the  wind  blows  the  foam,  and  all  my  heart 
Went  forth  to  embrace  him  coming  ere  he  came. 

"Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 
He  smiled,  and  opening  out  his  milk-white  palm 
Disclosed  a  fruit  of  pure  Hesperian  gold, 
That  smelt  ambrosially,  and  while  I  look'd 
And  listen'd,  the  full  flowing  river  of  speech 
Came  down  upon  my  heart. 

"'My  own  (Enone, 

Beautifnl-brow'd  CEnone,  my  own  soul, 
Behold  this  fruit,  whose  gleaming  rind  engrav'n 
"  For  the  most  fair,"  would  seem  to  award  it  thine, 
As  lovelier  than  whatever  Oread  haunt 
The  knolls  of  Ida,  loveliest  in  all  grace 
Of  movement,  and  the  charm  of  married  brow.*.' 

"  Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 
He  prest  the  blossom  of  his  lips  to  mine, 


26 


CENONE. 


And  added,  'This  was  cast  upon  the  board, 
When  all  the  full-faced  presence  of  the  Gods 
Ranged  in  the  halls  of  Peleus ;  whereupon 
Rose  fend,  with  question  unto  whom  'twere  due: 
But  light-foot  Iris  brought  it  yester-eve, 
Delivering,  that  to  me,  by  common  voice 
Elected  umpire,  Here  comes  to-day, 
Pallas  and  Aphrodite,  claiming  each 
This  meed  of  fairest.    Thou,  within  the  cave 
Behind  yon  whispering  tuft  of  oldest  pine, 
Mayst  well  behold  them  nnbeheld,  unheard 
Hear  all,  and  see  thy  Paris  judge  of  Gods.' 

"Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 
It  was  the  deep  midnoou:  one  silvery  cloud 
Had  lost  his  way  between  the  piny  sides 
Of  this  long  glen.  '  Then  to  the  bower  they  came, 
Naked  they  came  to  that  smooth-swarded  bower, 
And  at  their  feet  the  crocus  brake  like  fire, 
Violet,  amaracus,  and  asphodel, 
Lotos  and  lilies:  and  a  wind  arose, 
And  overhead  the  wandering  ivy  and  vine, 
This  way  and  that,  in  many  a  wild  festoon 
Ran  riot,  garlanding  the  gnarled  boughs 
With  bunch  and  berry  and  flower  thro'  and  thro.' 

"O  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 
On  the  tree-tops  a  crested  peacock  lit, 
And  o'er  him  flow'd  a  golden  cloud,  and  lean'd 
Upon  him,  slowly  dropping  fragrant  dew. 
Then  first  I  heard  the  voice  of  her,  to  whom 
Coming  thro'  Heaven,  like  a  light  that  grows 
Larger  and  clearer,  with  one  mind  the  Gods 
Rise  up  for  reverence.    She  to  Paris  made 
Proffer  of  royal  power,  ample  rule 
TJnquestion'd,  overflowing  revenue 
Wherewith  to  embellish  state,  'from  many  a  vale 
And  river-sunder'd  champaign  clothed  with  corn, 
Or  labor'd  mines  undrainable  of  ore. 
Honor,'  she  said,  'and  homage,  tax  and  toll, 
From  many  an  inland  town  and  haven  large, 
Mast-throng'd  beneath  her  shadowing  citadel 
In  glassy  bays  among  her  tallest  towers.1 

"O  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 
Still  she  spake  on  and  still  she  spake  of  power, 
'Which  in  all  action  is  the  end  of  all; 
Power  fitted  to  the  season ;  wisdom-bred 
And  throned  of  wisdom — from  all  neighbor  crowns 
Alliance  and  allegiance,  till  thy  hand 
Fail  from  the  sceptre-staff".    Such  boon  from  me, 
From  me,  Heaven's  Queen,  Paris,  to  thee  king-born, 
A  shepherd  all  thy  life  but  yet  king-born, 
Should  come  most  welcome,  seeing  men,  in  power 
Only,  are  likest  gods,  who  have  attain'd 
Rest  in  a  happy  place  and  quiet  seats 
Above  the  thunder,  with  undying  bliss 
In  knowledge  of  their  own  supremacy.' 

"Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 
She  ceased,  and  Paris  held  the  costly  fruit 
Ont  at  arm's-length,  so  much  the  thought  of  power 
Flatter'd  his  spirit;  but  Pallas  where  she  stood 
Somewhat  apart,  her  clear  and  bared  limbs 
O'erthwarted  with  the  brazen-headed  spear 
Upon  her  pearly  shoulder  leaning  cold, 
The  while,  above,  her  full  and  earnest  eye 
Over  her  snow-cold  breast  and  angry  cheek 
Kept  watch,  waiting  decision,  made  reply. 

"  'Self-reverence,  self-knowledge,  self-control, 
These  three  alone  lead  life  to  sovereign  power. 
Yet  not  for  power,  (power  of  herself 
Wonld  come  uncall'd  for)  but  to  live  by  law, 
Acting  the  law  we  live  by  without  fear; 
And,  because  right  is  right,  to  follow  right 
Were  wisdom  in  the  scorn  of  consequence.' 


"Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 
Again  she  said:  'I  woo  thee  not  with  gifts. 
Sequel  of  guerdon  could  not  alter  me 
To  fairer.    Judge  thou  me  by  what  I  am, 
So  shall  thou  find  me  fairest. 

Yet,  indeed, 

If  gazing  on  divinity  disrobed 
Thy  mortal  eyes  are  frail  to  judge  of  fair, 
Unbiass'd  by  self-profit,  oh  !  rest  thee  sure 
That  I  PhalUove  thee  well  and  cleave  to  thee, 
So  that  my  vigor,  wedded  to  thy  blood, 
Shall  strike  within  thy  pulses,  like  a  God's,     - 
To  push  thee  forward  thro'  a  life  of  shocks. 
Dangers,  and  deeds,  until  endurance  grow 
Siuew'd  with  action,  and  the  full-grown  will, 
Circled  thro'  all  experiences,  pure  law, 
Commeasnre  perfect  freedom.' 

"Here  she  ceased, 

And  Paris  ponder'd,  and  I  cried,  'O  Paris, 
Give  it  to  Pallas !'  but  he  heard  me  not, 
Or  hearing  would  not  hear  me,  woe  is  me ! 

"O  mother  Ida,  many-fountain'd  Ida, 
Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 
Idalian  Aphrodite  beautiful, 
Fresh  as  the  foam,  new-bathed  in  Paphian  wells, 
With  rosy  slender  fingers  backward  drew 
From  her  warm  brows  and  bosom  her  deep  hair 
Ambrosial,  golden  round  her  lucid  throat 
And  shoulder:  from  the  violets  her  light  foot 
Shone  rosy-white,  and  o'er  her  rounded  form 
Between  the  shadows  of  the  vine-bunches 
Floated  the  glowing  sunlights,  as  she  moved. 

"Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 
She  with  a  subtle  smile  in  her  mild  eyes, 
The  herald  of  her  triumph,  drawing  nigh 
Half-whisper'd  in  his  ear,  '  I  promise  thee 
The  fairest  and  most  loving  wife  in  Greece.' 
She  spoke  and  laughed:  I  shut  my  sight  for  fear: 
But  when  I  look'd,  Paris  had  raised  his  arm, 
And  I  beheld  great  Here's  angry  eyes, 
As  she  withdrew  into  the  golden  cloud, 
And  I  was  left  alone  within  the  bower; 
And  from  that  time  to  this  I  am  alone, 
And  I  shall  be  alone  until  I  die. 

"Yet,  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 
Fairest — why  fairest  wife?  am  I  not  fair? 
My  love  hath  told  me  so  a  thousand  times, 
tfethinks  I  must  be  fair,  for  yesterday, 
When  I  passed  by,  a  wild  and  wanton  pard, 
Eyed  Ijke  the  evening  star,  with  playfnl  tail 

rouch'd  fawning  in  the  weed.    Most  loving  is  she! 
Ah  me,  my  mountain  shepherd,  that  my  arms 
Were  wound  about  thee,  and  my  hot  lips  prest 

lose,  close  to  thine  in  that  quick-falling  dew 
Of  fruitful  kisses,  thick  as  Autumn  rains 
Plash  in  the  pools  of  whirling  Simois. 

O  mother,  bear  me  yet  before  I  die. 
They  came,  they  cut  away  my  tallest  pines, 
Vfy  dark  tall  pines,  that  plumed  the  craggy  ledge 
High  over  the  blue  gorge,  and  all  between  • 
The  snowy  peak  and  snow-white  cataract 
foster'  d  the  callow  eaglet — from  beneath 
Whose  thick  mysterious  bows  in  the  dark  morn 
The  panther's  roar  came  muffled,  while  I  sat 
Low  in  the  valley.    Never,  never  more 
Shall  lone  CEnone  see  the  morning  mist 
Sweep  thro'  them ;  never  see  them  overlaid 
With  narrow  moon-lit  slips  of  silver  cloud, 
Between  the  loud  stream  and  the  trembling  stars. 

O  mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I  die. 
I  wish  that  somewhere  in  the  ruin'd  folds,  _ 
Among  the  fragments  tumbled  from  the  glens, 
Or  the  dry  thickets,  I  could  meet  with  her, 
The  Abominable,  that  uninvited  came 


THE  SISTERS.— TO 


.—THE  PALACE  OF  ART. 


27 


Into  the  fair  Peleian  banquet-hall, 

And  cast  the  golden  fruit  upon  the  board,. 

And  bred  this  change;  that  I  might  speak  my  mind, 

And  tell  her  to  her  face  how  much  I  hate 

Her  presence,  hated  both  of  Gods  and  men. 

"  O  mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I  die. 
Hath  he  not  sworn  his  love  a  thousand  times, 
In  this  green  valley,  under  this  green  hill, 
Ev'n  on  this  hand,  and  sitting  on  this  stone? 
Seal'd  it  with  kisses?  water'd  it  with  tears? 
O  happy  tears,  and  how  unlike  to  these ! 
O  happy  Heaven,  how  canst  thou  see  my  face  ? 
O  happy  earth,  how  canst  thou  bear  my  weight  ? 

0  death,  death,  death,  thou  ever-floating  cloud, 
There  are  enough  unhappy  on  this  earth, 
Pass  by  the  happy  souls,  that  love  to  live: 

1  pray  thee,  pass  before  my  light  of  life, 
And  shadow  all  my  soul,  that  I  may  die. 
Thou  weighest  heavy  on  the  heart  within, 
Weigh  heavy  on  my  eyelids :  let  me  die. 

"O  mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I  die. 
I  will  not  die  alone,  for  fiery  thoughts 
Do  shape  themselves  within  me,  more  and  more, 
Whereof  I  catch  the  issue,  as  I  hear 
Dead  sounds  at  night  come  from  the  inmost  hills, 
Like  footsteps  upon  wool.    I  dimly  see 
My  far-off  doubtful  purpose,  as  a  mother 
Conjectures  of  the  features  of  her  child 
Ere  it  is  born :  her  child !  a  shudder  comes 
Across  me :  never  child  be  born  of  me, 
Unblest,  to  vex  me  with  his  father's  eyes  1 

"O  mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I  die. 
Hear  me,  O  earth.    I  will  not  die  alone, 
Lest  their  shrill  happy  laughter  come  to  me 
Walking  the  cold  and  starless  road  of  Death 
Uncomforted,  leaving  my  ancient  love 
With  the  Greek  woman.    I  will  rise  and  go 
Down  into  Troy,  and  ere  the  stars  come  forth 
Talk  with  the  wild  Cassandra,  for  she  says  . 

A  fire  dances  before  her,  and  a  sound 
Rings  ever  in  her  ears  of  armed  men. 
What  this  may  be  I  know  not,  but  I  know 
That,  wheresoe'er  I  am  by  night  and  day, 
All  earth  and  air  seem  only  burning  fire." 


THE  SISTERS. 

WE  were  two  daughters  of  one  race: 
She  was  the  fairest  in,  the  face : 

The  wind  is  blowing  in  turret  and  tree. 
They  were  together,  and  she  fell ; 
Therefore  revenge  became  me  well. 

O  the  Earl  was  fair  to  see ! 

She  died :  she  went  to  burning  flame : 
She  mix'd  her  ancient  blood  with  shame. 

The  wind  is  howling  in  turret  and  tree. 
Whole  weeks  and  months,  and  early  and  late, 
To  win  his  love  I  lay  in  wait : 

O  the  Earl  was  fair  to  see  1 

I  made  a  feast ;  I  bade  him  come ; 
I  won  his  love,  I  brought  him  home. 

The  wind  is  roaring  in  turret  and  tree. 
And  after  supper,  on  a  bed, 
Upon  my  lap  he  laid  his  head: 

O  the  Earl  was  fair  to  see ! 

I  kiss'd  his  eyelids  into  rest: 
His  ruddy  cheek  upon  my  breast. 

The  wind  is  raging  in  turret  and  tree. 
I  hated  him  with  the  hate  of  hell, 
But  I  loved  his  beauty  passing  well. 

O  the  Earl  was  fair  to  gee  I 


I  rose  up  in  the  silent  night : 

I  made  my  dagger  sharp  and  bright 

The  wind  is  raving  in  turret  and  tree. 
As  half-asleep  his  breath  he  drew, 
Three  times  I  stabb'd  him  thro'  and  thro'. 

O  the  Earl  was  fair  to  see ! 

I  curl'd  and  comb'd  his  comely  head, 
He  look'd  so  grand  when  he  was  dead. 

The  wind  is  blowing  in  turret  and  tree. 
I  wrapt  his  body  in  the  sheet, 
And  laid  him  at  his  mother's  feet. 

O  the  Earl  was  fair  to  see !   . 


TO 


•WITH    THE    FOLLOWING    POEM. 

I  SEND  you  here  a  sort  of  allegory, 

(For  you  will  understand  it)  of  a  soul, 

A  sinful  soul  possess'd  of  many  gifts, 

A  spacious  garden  full  of  flowering  weeds, 

A  glorious  Devil,  large  in  heart  and  brain, 

That  did  love  Beauty  only,  (Beauty  seen 

In  all  varieties  of  mould  and  mind,) 

And  Knowledge  for  its  beauty ;  or  if  Good, 

Good  only  for  its  beauty,  seeing  not 

That  Beauty,  Good,  and  Knowledge  are  three  sisters 

That  doat  upon  each  other,  friends  to  man, 

Living  together  under  the  same  roof, 

And  never  can  be  sunder'd  without  tears, 

And  he  that  shuts  Love  out,  in  turn  shall  be 

Shut  out  from  Love,  and  on  her  threshold  lie 

Howling  in  outer  darkness.    Not  for  this 

Was  common  clay  ta'en  from  the  common  earth, 

Moulded  by  God,  and  temper'd  with  the  tears 

Of  angels  to  the  perfect  shape  of  man. 


THE  PALACE  OF  ART. 

I  BUILT  my  soul  a  lordly  pleasure-house, 

Wherein  at  ease  for  aye  to  dwell. 
I  said,  "  O  Soul,  make  merry  and  carouse, 
Dear  soul,  for  all  is  well." 

A  huge  crag-platform,  smooth  as  burnish'd  brass, 

I  chose.    The  ranged  ramparts  bright 
From  level  meadow-bases  of  deep  grass 
Suddenly  scaled  the  light. 

Thereon  I  built  it  firm.    Of  ledge  or  shelf 

The  rock  rose  clear,  or  winding  stair. 
My  soul  would  live  alone  unto  herself 
In  her  high  palace  there. 

And  "while  the  world  runs  round  and  round," I  said, 

"  Reign  thou  apart,  a  quiet  king, 
Still  as,  while  Saturn  whirls,  his  steadfast  shads 
Sleeps  on  his  luminous  ring." 

To  which  my  soul  made  answer  readily: 

"Trust  me,  in  bliss  I  shall  abide 
In  this  great  mansion,  that  is  built  for  me, 
So  royal-rich  and  wide." 


Four  courts  I  made,  East,  West  and  South  and  North, 

In  each  a  squared  lawn,  wherefrom 
The  golden  gorge  of  dragons  spouted  forth 
A  flood  of  fountain-foam. 

And  round  the  cool  green  courts  there  ran  a  row 

Of  cloisters,  branch'd  like  mighty  woods, 
Echoing  all  night  to  that  sonorous  flow 
'  Of  spouted  fountain-floods. 


28 


THE  PALACE  OF  ART. 


And  round  the  roofs  a  gilded  gallery 

That  lent  broad  verge  to  distant  lands, 
Far  as  the  wild  swan  wings,  to  where  the  sky 
Dipt  down  to  sea  and  sands. 

Prom  those  four  jets  four  currents  in  one  swell 

Across  the  mountain  stream'd  below 
lu  misty  folds,  that  floating  as  they  fell 
Lit  up  a  torrent-bow. 

And  high  on  every  peak  a  statue  seem'd 

To  hang  on  tiptoe,  tossing  up 
A  cloud  of  incense  of  all  odor  steam'd 
Prom  out  a  golden  cup. 

So  that  she  thought,  "  And  who  shall  gaze  upon 

My  palace  with  unblinded  eyes, 
While  this  great  bow  will  waver  in  the  sun, 
And  that  sweet  incense  rise  1" 

For  that  sweet  incense  rose  and  never  fail'd, 

And,  while  day  sank  or  mounted  higher, 
The  light  aerial  gallery,  golden-rail'd, 
Burnt  like  a  fringe  of  fire. 

Likewise  the  deep-set  windows,  stain'd  and  traced, 

Would  seem  slow-flaming  crimson  fires 
From  shadow'd  grots  of  arches  interlaced, 
And  tipt  with  frost-like  spires. 


Full  of  long-sounding  corridors  it  was, 

That  over-vaulted  grateful  gloom, 
Thro'  which  the  live-long  day  my  soul  did  pass, 
Well-pleased,  from  room  to  room. 

Full  of  great  rooms  and  small  the  palace  stood, 

All  various,  each  a  perfect  whole 
From  living  Nature,  fit  for  'every  mood 
And  change  of  my  still  soul. 

For  some  were  hung  with  arras  green  and  blue, 

Showing  a  gaudy  summer-morn, 
Where  with  puff' d  cheek  the  belted  hunter  blew 
His  wreathed  bugle-horn. 

One  seem'd  all  dark  and  red, — a  tract  of  sand, 

And  some  one  pacing  there  alone, 
Who  p'aced  forever  in  a  glimmering  land, 
Lit  with  a  low  large  moon. 

One  show'd  an  iron  coast  and  angry  waves. 

You  seem'd  to  hear  them  climb  and  fall 
And  roar  rock-thwarted  under  bellowing  caves, 
Beneath  the  windy  wall. 

And  one,  a  full-fed  river  winding  slow 

By  herds  upon  an  endless  plain, 
The  ragged  rims  of  thunder  brooding  low, 
With  shadow-streaks  of  rain. 

And  one,  the  reapers  at  their  sultry  toil, 

In  front  they  bound  the  sheaves.    Behind 
Were  realms  of  upland,  prodigal  in  oil, 
And  hoary  to  the  wind. 

And  one,  a  foreground  black  with  stones  and  slags, 

Beyond,  a  line  of  heights,  and  higher 
All  barr'd  with  long  white  cloud  the  scornful  crags, 
And  highest,  snow  and  fire. 

And  one,  an  English  home, — gray  twilight  pour'd 

On  dewy  pasture?,  dewy  trees, 
Softer  than  sleep, — all  things  in  order  stored, 
A  haunt  of  ancient  Peace. 


Nor  these  alofte,  but  every  landscape  fair, 

As  fit  /or  every  mood  of  mind, 
Or  gay,  or  grave,  or  sweet,  or  stern,  was  there, 
Not  less  than  truth  design'd. 


Or  the  maid-mother  by  a  crucifix, 
In  tracts  of  pasture  sunny-warm, 
Beneath  branch-work  of  costly  sardonyx 
Sat  smiling,  babe  in  arm. 

Or  in  a  clear-wall'd  city  on  the  sea, 
Near  gilded  organ-pipes,  her  hair 
Wound  with  white  roses,  slept  St.  Cecily; 
An  angel  looked  at  her. 

Or  thronging  all  one  porch  of  Paradise, 

A  group  of  Houris  bow'd  to  see 
The  dying  Islamite,  with  hands  and  eyes 
That  said,  We  wait  for  thee. 

Or  mythic  Uther's  deeply-wounded  son 
In  some  fair  space  of  sloping  greens 
Lay,  dozing  in  the  vale  of  Avalon, 
And  watch'd  by  weeping  queens. 

Or  hollowing  one  hand  against  his  ear, 

To  list  a  footfall,  ere  he  saw 

The  wood-nymph,  stay'd  the  Ausonian  king  to  near 
Of  wisdom  and  of  Ia\v. 

Or  over  hills  with  peaky  tops  engrail'd, 

And  many  a  tract  of  palm  and  rice, 
The  throne  of  Indian  Cama  slowly  sail'd 
A  summer  fann'd  with  spice. 

Or  sweet  Europa's  mantle  blew  unclasp'd, 
From  off  her  shoulder  backward  borne : 
From  one  hand  droop'd  a  crocus :  one  hand  grasp'd 
,      The  mild  bull's  golden  horn. 

Or  else  flushed  Ganymede,  his  rosy  thigh 

Half-buried  in  the  Eagle's  down, 
Sole  as  a  flying  star  shot  thro'  the  sky 
Above  the  pillar'd  town. 

Nor  these  alone:  bnt  every  legend  fair 
Which  tile  supreme  Caucasian  mind 
Carved  out  of  Nature  for  itself,  was  there, 
Not  less  than  life,  design'd. 


Then  in  the  towers  I  placed  great  bells  that  swin.g, 

Moved  of  themselves,  with  silver  sound; 
And  with  choice  paintings  of  wise  men  I  hung 
The  royal  dais  round. 

For  there  was  Milton  like  a  seraph  strong, 
Beside  him  Shakespeare  bland  and  mild ; 
And  there  the  world-worn  Dante  grasp'd  his  song, 
And  somewhat  grimly  smiled. 

And  there  the  Ionian  father  of  the  rest ; 

A  million  wrinkles  carved  his  skin; 
A  hundred  winters  snow'd  upon  his -breast. 
From  cheek  and  throat  and  chin. 

Above,  the  fair  hall-ceiling  stately-set 

Many  an  arch  high  up  did  lift, 
And  angels  rising  and  descending  met 
With  interchange  of  gift. 

Below  was  all  mosaic  choicely  plann'd 
With  cycles  of  the  human  tale 


THE  PALACE  OF  ART. 


29 


"  Lay,  dozing  in  the  va 
And  watchM  by 


Of  this  wide  world,  the  times  of  every  land 
So  wrought,  they  will  not  fail. 

The  people  herer  a  beast  of  burden  slow, 

Toil'd  onward,  prick'd  with  goads  and  stings; 
Here  play'd  a  tiger,  rolling  to  and  fro 
The  heads  and  crowns  of  kings ; 

Here  rose  an  athlete,  strong  -to  break  or  bind 

All  force  in  bonds  that  might  endure, 
And  here  once  more  like  some  sick  man  declin'd, 
And  trusted  any  cure. 

But  over  these  she  trod:  and  those  great  bells 

Began  to  chime.    She  took  her  throne: 
She  sat  betwixt  the  shining  Oriels, 
To  sing  her  songs  alone. 

And  thro'  the  topmost  Oriels'  color'd  flame 

Two  godlike  faces  gazed  below; 
Plato  the  wise,  and  large-brow'd  Verulam, 
The  first  of  those  who  know. 

And  all  those  names,  that  in  their  motion  were 

Full-welling  fountain-heads  of  change, 
Betwixt  the  slender  shafts  were  blazon'd  fair 
In  diverse  raiment  strange: 

Thro1  which  the  lights,  rose,  amb  er,  emerald,  blue, 

Flush'd  in  her  temples  and  her  eyes, 
And  from  her  lips,  as  morn  from  Memnon,  drew 
Rivers  of  melodies. 

No  nightingale  delighteth  to  prolong 

Her  low  preamble  all  alone, 
More  than  my  soul  to  hear  her  echo'd  song 
Throb  thro'  the  ribbed  stone ; ' 

Singing  and  murmuring  in  her  feastful  mirth, 

Joying  to  feel  herself  alive, 
Lord  over  Nature,  Lord  of  the  visible  earth, 
Lord  of  the  senses  five ; 


Communing  with  herself:  "All  these  are  mina, 

And  let  the  world  have  peace  or  wars, 
'Tis  one  to  me."    She— when  young  night  divine 
Crown'd  dying  day  with  stars, 

Making  sweet  close  of  his  delicious  toils — 

Lit  light  in  wreaths  and  anadems, 
And  pure  quintessences  of  precious  oils 
In  hollow'd  moons  "of  gems, 

To  mimic  heaven ;  and  clapt  her  hands  and  cried. 

"  I  marvel  if  my  still  delight 
In  this  great  house  so  royal-rich,  and  wide, 
Be  flatter'd  to  the  height 

"  O  all  things  fair  to  sate  my  various  eyes ! 

0  shapes  and  hues  that  please  me  well ! 

0  silent  faces  of  the  Great  and  Wise, 

My  Gods,  with  whom  I  dwell ! 

"O  God-like  isolation  which  art  mine, 

1  can  but  count  thee  perfect  gain, 

What  time  I  watch  the  darkening  droves  of  swina 
That  range  on  yonder  plain. 

"In  filthy  sloughs  they  roll  a  prurient  skin, 
They  graze  and  wallow,  breed  and  sleep ; 
And  oft  some  brainless  devil  enters  in, 
And  drives  them  to  the  deep." 

Then  of  the  moral  instinct  would  she  prate, 

And  of  the  rising  from  the  dead, 
As  here  by  right  of  full-accomplish'd  Fate ; 
And  at  the  last  she  said: 

"I  take  possession  of  man's  mind  and  deed. 
I  care  not  what  the  sects  may  brawl. 

1  sit  as  God  holding  no  form  of  creed, 

But  contemplating  all." 


30 


LADY  CLARA  VERB  DE  VERE. 


Full  oft  the  riddle  of  the  painful  earth 

Flash'd  thro'  her  as  she  sat  alone, 
Yet  not  the  less  held  she  her  solemn  mirth, 
And  intellectual  throne. 

And  so  she  throve  and  prosper'd:  so  three  years 

She  prosper'd :  on  the  fourth  she  fell, 
Like  Herod,  when  the  shout  was  in  his  ears, 
Struck'  thro'  with  pangs  of  hell. 

Lest  she  should  fail  and  perish  utterly, 

God,  before  whom  ever  lie  bare 
The  abysmal  deeps  of  Personality, 
Plagued  her  with  sore  despair. 

When  she  would  think,  where'er  she  turn'd  her  sight, 

The  airy  hand  confusion  wrought, 
Wrote  "Mene,  mene,"  and  divided  quite 
The  kingdom  of  her  thought. 

Deep  dread  and  loathing  of  her  solitude 

Fell  on  her,  from  which  mood  was  born 
Scorn  of  herself;  again,  from  out  that  mood 
Laughter  at  her  self-scorn. 

"What !  is  not  this  my  place  of  strength,"  she  said, 

"My  spacious  mansion  built  for  me, 
Whereof  the  strong  foundation-stones  were  laid 
Since  my  first  memory?" 

But  in  dark  corners  of  her  palace  stood 

Uncertain  shapes;  and  unawares 
On  white-eyed  phantasms  weeping  tears  of  blood, 
And  horrible  nightmares, 

And  hollow  shades  enclosing  hearts  of  flame, 

And,  with  dim  fretted  foreheads  all, 
On  corpses  three-months  old  at  noon  she  came, 
That  stood  against  the  wall. 

A  spot  of  dull  stagnation,  without,  light 

Or  power  of  movement,  seem'd  my  soul, 
'Mid  onward-sloping  motions  infinite 
Making  for  one  sure  goal. 

A  still  salt  pool,  lock'd  in  with  bars  of  sand ; 

Left  on  the  shore ;  that  hears  all  night 
The  plunging  seas  draw  backward  from  the  land 
Their  moon-led  waters  white. 

A  star  that  with  the  choral  starry  dance 

Join'd  not,  but  stood,  and  standing  saw 
The  hollow  orb  of  moving  Circumstance 
Roll'd  round  by  one  •fix'd  law. 

Back  on  herself  her  serpent  pride  had  curl'd. 
"No  voice,"  she  shriek'd  in  that  lone  hall, 
"No  voice  breaks  thro'  the  stillness  of  this  world: 
One  deep,  deep  silence  all !" 

She,  mouldering  with  the  dull  earth's  mouldering  sod, 

Inwrapt  tenfold  in  slothful  shame, 
Lay  there  exiled  from  eternal  God, 
Lost  to  her  place  and  name ; 

And  death  and  life  she'  hated  equally, 

And  nothing  saw,  for  her  despair, 
But  dreadful  time,  dreadful  eternity, 
No  comfort  anywhere ; 

Remaining  utterly  confused  with  fears, 
And  ever  worse  with  growing  time, 
•And  ever  unrelieved  by  dismal  tears, 
And  all  alone  in  crime: 

Shut  up  as  in  a  crumbling  tomb,  girt  round 

With  blackness  as  a  solid  wall, 
Far  off  she  seem'd  to  hear  the  dully  sound 
Of  human  footsteps  fall. 


As  in  strange  lands  a  traveller  walking  slow, 

In  doubt  and  great  perplexity, 
A  little  before  moon-rise  hears  the  low 
Moan  of  an  unknown  sea ; 

And  knows  not  if  it  be  thunder  or  a  sound 

Of  rocks  thrown  down,  or  one  deep  cry 
Of  great  wild  beasts ;  then  thinketh,  "  I  have  found 
A  new  land,  but  I  die." 

She  howl'd  aloud,  "I  am  on  fire  within. 
.  There  comes  no  murmur  of  reply. 
What  is  it  that  will  take  away  my  sin, 
And  save  me  lest  I  die?" 

So  when  four  years  were  wholly  finished, 
She  threw  her  royal  robes  away, 
Make  me  a  cottage  in  the  vale,"  she  said, 
"Where  I  may  mourn  and  pray. 

Yet  pull  not  down  my  palace  towers,  that  arc 
So  lightly,  beautifully  built : 
Perchance  I  may  return  with  others  there 
When  I  have  purged  my  guilt." 


LADY  CLARA  VERE  DE  VERE. 

LADY  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

Of  me  you  shall  not  win  renown : 
You  thought  to  break  a  country  heart 

For  pastime,  ere  you  went  to  town. 
At  me  you  smiled,  but  unbeguiled 

I  saw  the  snare,  and  I  retired : 
The  daughter  of  a  hundred  Earls, 

You  are  not  one  to  be  desired. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

I  know  you  proud  to  bear  your  name, 
Your  pride  is  yet  no  mate  for  mine, 

Too  proud  to  care  from  whence  I  came. 
Nor  would  I  break  for  your  sweet  sake 

A  heart  that  doats  on  truer  charms. 
A  simple  maiden  in  her  flower 

Is  worth  a  hundred  coats-of-arms. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

Some  meeker  pupil  you  must  find, 
For  were  you  queen  of  all  that  is, 

I  could  not  stoop  to  such  a  mind. 
You  sought  to  prove  how  I  could  love, 

And  my  disdain  is  my  reply. 
The  lion  on  your  old  stone  gates 

Is  not  more  cold  to  you  than  I. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

You  put  strange  memories  in  my  head. 
Not  thrice  your  branching  limes  have  blown 

Since  I  beheld  young  Laurence  dead. 
Oh  your  sweet  eyes,  your  low  replies : 

A  great  enchantress  you  may  be ; 
But  there  was  that  across  his  throat 

Which  you  had  hardly  cared  to  see. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

When  thus  he  met  his  mother's  view, 
She  had  the  passions  of  her  kind, 

She  spake  some  certain  truths  of  you. 
Indeed  I  heard  one  bitter  word 

That  scarce  is  fit  for  you  to  hear ; 
Her  manners  had  not  that  repose 

Which  stamps  the  caste  of  Vere  de  Vere. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

There  stands  a  spectre  in  your  hall : 
The  guilt  of  blood  is  at  your  door : 

You  changed  a  wholesome  heart  to  gall. 


THE  MAY  QUEEN. 


31 


You  held  your  course  without  remorse, ' 
To  make  him  trust  his  modest  worth, 

And,  last,  you  flx'd  a  vacaut  stare, 
And  slew  him  with  your  noble  birth. 

Trust  me,  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

From  yon  blue  heavens  above  us  bent 
The  grand  old  gardener  and  his  wife 

Smile  at  the  claims  of  long  descent.    . 
Howe'er  it  be?  it  seems  to  me, 

'Tis  only  noble  to  be  good. 
Kind  hearts  are  more  than  coronets, 

And  simple  faith  than  Norman  blood. 

I  know  you,  Clara  Vere  de  Vere: 
You  pine  among  your  halls  and  towers : 


The  languid  light  of  your  proud  eyes 

Is  wearied  of  the  rolling  hours. 
In  glowing  health,  with  boundless  wealth, 

But  sickening  of  a  vague  disease, 
You  know  so  ill  to  deal  with  time, 

You  needs  must  play  such  pranks  a*  these, 

Clara,  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

If  Time  be  heavy  on  your  hands, 
Are  there  no  beggars  at  your  gate, 

Nor  any  poor  about  your  lands? 
Oh!  teach  the  orphan-boy  to  read, 

Or  teach  the  orphan-girl  to  sew, 
Pray  Heaven  for  a  human  heart, 

And  let  the  foolish  yeomau  go. 


THE    MAY    QUEEN. 


ly,  mother  dear." 


You  must  wake  and  call  me  early,  call  me  early,  mother  dear ; 

To-morrow  'ill  be  the  happiest  time  of  all  the  glad  New-year; 

Of  all  the  glad  New-year,  mother,  the  maddest  merriest  day ; 

For  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

There's  many  a  black  black  eye,  they  say,  but  none  so  bright  as  mine ; 

There's  Margaret  and  Mary,  there's  Kate  and  Caroline : 

But  none  so  fair  as  little  Alice  in  all  the  land  they  say, 

So  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

I  sleep  so  sound  all  night,  mother,  that  I  shall 'never  wake, 

If  you  do  not  call  me  loud  when  the  day  begins  to  break : 

But  I.must  gather  knots  of  flowers,  and  buds  and  garlands  gay, 

For  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

As  I  came  up  the  valley  whom  think  ye  should  I  see, 

But  Robin  leaning  on  the  bridge  beneath  the  hazel-tree? 

He  thought  of  that  sharp  look,  mother,  I  gave  him  yesterday, — 

But  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

He  thought  I  was  a  ghost,  mother,  for  I  was  all  in  white, 
And  I  ran  by  him  without  speaking,  like  a  flash  of  light. 
They  call  me  cruel-hearted,  but  I  care  not  what  they  say, 
For  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

They  say  he's  dying  all  for  love,  but  that  can  never  be : 

They  say  his  heart  is  breaking,  mother— what  is  that  to  me  ? 

There's  many  a  bolder  lad  'ill  woo  me  any  summer  day, 

And  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 


32 


NEW-YEAR'S  EVE. 


Little  Effle  shall  go  with  me  to-morrow  to  the  green, 

And  you'll  be  there,  too,  mother,  to  see  me  made  the  Queen; 

For  the  shepherd  lads  on  every  side  'ill  come  from  far  away, 

And  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

The  honeysuckle  round  the  porch  has  wov'n  its  wavy  bowers, 
And  by  the  meadow-trenches  blow  the  faint  sweet  cuckoo-flowers ; 
And  the  wild  marsh-marigold  shines  like  fire  in  swamps  and  hollows  gray, 
And  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

The  night-winds  come  and  go,  mother,  upon  the  meadow-grass, 
And  the  happy  stars  above  them  seem  to  brighten  as  they  pass ; 
There  will  not  be  a  drop  of  rain  the  whole  of  the  livelong  day, 
And  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

All  the  valley,  mother,  'ill  be  fresh  and  green  and  still, 

And  the  cowslip  and  the  crowfoot  are  over  all  the  hill, 

And  the  rivulet  in  the  flowery  dale  'ill  merrily  glance  and  play, 

For  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to.be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

So  you  must  wake  and  call  me  early,  call  me  early,  mother  dear, 
To-morrow  'ill  be  the  happiest  time  of  all  the  glad  New-year : 
To-morrow  'ill  be  of  all  the  year  the  maddest  merriest  day,' 
For  I'm  to  be  Queer^  o'  the  Slay,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 


NEW-YEAR'S    EVE. 

IP  you're  waking,  call  me  early,  call  me  early,  mother  dear, 

For  I  would  see  the  sun  rise  upon  the  glad  New-year. 

It  is  the  last  New-year  that  I  shall  ever  see, 

Then  you  may  lay  me  low  i'  the  mould  and  think  no  more  of  me. 

To-night  I  saw  the  sun  set:  he  set  and  left  behind 
The  good  old  year,  the  dear  old  time,  and  all  my  peace  of  mind ; 
And  the  New-year's  coming  up,  mother,  but  I  shall  never  see 
The  blossom  on  the  blackthorn,  the  leaf  upon  the  tree. 

Last  May  we  made  a  crown  of  flowers :  we  had  a  merry  day ; 
Beneath  the'  hawthorn  on  the  green  they  made  me  Queen  of  May ; 
And  we  danced  about  the  may-pole  and  in  the  hazel  copse, 
Till  Charles's  Wain  came  out  above  the  tall  white  chimney-tops. 

There's  not  a  flower  on  all  the  hills ;  the  frost  is  on  the  pane : 
I  only  wish  to  live  till  the  snowdrops  come  again : 
I  wish  the  snow  would  melt  and  the  sun  come  out  on  high: 
I  long  to  see  a  flower  so  before  the  day  I  die. 

The  building  rook  'ill  caw  from  the  windy  tall  elm-tree, 

Arid  the  tufted  plover  pipe  along  the  fallow  lea, 

And  the  swallow  'ill  come  back  again  with  summer  o'er  the  wave, 

But  I  shall  lie  alone,  mother,  within  the  mouldering  grave. 


1  Last  May  we  made  a  crown  of  flower*,  we  had  a  merry  day ; 
Beneath  the  hawthorn  on  the  green  they  made  me  Queen  of  May." 


CONCLUSION. 


Upon  the  chancel-casement,  and  upon  that  grave  of  mine, 
In  the  early  early  morning  the  summer  sun  'ill  shine, 
Before  the  red  cock  crows  from  the  farm  upon  the  hill, 
When  you  are  warm-asleep,  mother,  and  all  the  world  is  still. 

When  the  flowers  come  again,  mother,  beneath  the  waning  light 
You'll  never  see  me  more  in  the  long  gray  fields  at  night ; 
When  from  the  dry  dark  wold  the  summer  airs  blow  cool 
On  the  oat-grass  and  the  sword-grass,  and  the  bulrush  in  the  pool 

You'll  bury  me,  my  mother,  just  beneath  the  hawthorn  shade, 
And  you'll  come  sometimes  and  see  me  where  I  am  lowly  laid. 
I  shall  not  forget  you,  mother,  I  shall  hear  you  when  you  pass, 
With  your  feet  above  my  head  in  the  long  and  pleasant  grass. 

I  have  been  wild  and  wayward,  but  you'll  forgive  me  now ; 
You'll  kiss  me,  my  own  mother,  and  forgive  me  ere  I  go ; 
Nay,  nay,  you  must  riot  weep,  nor  let  your  grief  be  wild, 
You  should  not  fret  for  me,  mother,  you  have  another  child. 

If  I  can  I'll  come  again,  mother,  from  out  my  resting-place ; 
Tho'  you'll  not  see  me,  mother,  I  shall  look  upon  your  face ; 
Tho'  I  cannot  speak  a  word,  I  shall  hearken  what  you  say, 
And  be  often,  often  with  you  when  you  think  I'm  far  away. 

Good-night,  good-night,  when  I  have  said  good-night  forevermore, 
And  you  see  me  carried  out  from  the  threshold  of  the  door ; 
Don't  let  Effle  come  to  see  me  till  my  grave  be  growing  green ; 
She'll  be  a  better  child  to  you  than  ever  I  have  been. 

She'll  find  my  garden-tools  upon  the  granary  floor; 
Let  her  take  'em :  they  are  hers :  I  shall  never  garden  more : 
But  tell  her,  when  I'm  gone,  to  train  the  rose-bush  that  I  set 
About  the  parlor-window  and  the  box  of  mignonette. 

Good-night,  sweet  mother;  call  me  before  the  day  is  born, 
All  night  I  lie  awake,  but  I  fall  asleep  at  morn ; 
But  I  would  see  the  sun  rise  upon  the  glad  New-year, 
So,  if  you're  waking,  call  me,  call  me  early,  mother  dear. 


CONCLUSION. 

I  THOUGHT  to  pass  away  before,  and  yet  alive  I  am ; 

And  in  the  fields  all  round  I  hear  the  bleating  of  the  lamb. 

How  sadly,  I  remember,  rose  the  morning  of  the  year  ! 

To  die  before  the  snowdrop  came,  and  now  the  violet's  here. 

O  sweet  is  the  new  violet,  that  comes  beneath  the  skies, 
And  sweeter  is  the  young  lamb's  voice  to  me  that  cannot  rise, 
And  sweet  is  all  the  land  about,  and  all  the  flowers  that  blow, 
And  sweeter  far  is  death  than  life  to  me  that  long  to  go. 

It  seem'd  so  hard  at  first,  mother,  to  leave  the  blessed  sun,. 
And  now  it  seems  as  hard  to  stay,  and  yet  His  will  be  done ! 
But  still  I  think  it  can't  be  loug  before  I  find  release ; 
And  that  good  man,  the  clergyman,  has  told  me  words  of  peace. 

O  blestings  on  his  kindly  voice  and  on  his  silver  hair ! 

And  blessings  on  his  whole  life  long,  until  he  meet  me  there  1 

0  blessings  on  his  kindly  heart  and  on  his  silver  head  ! 
A  thousand  times  I  blest  him,  as  he  knelt  beside  my  bed. 

He  taught  me  all  the  mercy,  for  he  show'd  me  all  the  sin. 
Now,  tho'  my  lamp  was  lighted  late,  there's  One  will  let  me  in ; 
Nor  would  I  now  be  well,  mother,  again,  if  that  could  be, 
For  my  desir.e  is  but  to  pass  to  Him  that  died  for  me. 

1  did  not  hear  the  dog  howl,  mother,  or  the  death-watch  beat, 
There  came  a  sweeter  token  when  the  night  and  morning  meet: 
But  sit  beside  my  bed,  mother,  and  put  your  hand  in  mine, 
And  Effie  on  the  other  side,  and  I  will  tell  the  sign. 

All  in  the  wild  March-morning  I  heard  the  angels  call : 
It  was  when  the  moon  was  setting,  and  the  dark  was  over  all , 
The  trees  began  to  whisper,  and  the  wind  began  to  roll, 
And  in  the  wild  March-morning  I  heard  them  call  my  soul. 


CONCLUSION. 


'But  sit  beside  my  bed, 
And  Effie  on  the  other 


nother,  and  jnit  your  hand  in  n 
tide,  and  I  will  tell  the  sign." 


For  lying  broad  awake  I  thought  of  you  and  Effie  dear ; 
I  saw  you  sitting  in  the  house,  and  I  no  louger  here ; 
With  all  my  strength  I  pray'd  for  both,  and  so  I  felt  resigned, 
And  up  the  valley  came  a  swell  of  music  on  the  wind. 

I  thought  that  it  was  fancy,  and  I  listen'd  in  my  bed, 
And  then  did  something  speak  to  me — I  know  not  what  was  said; 
For  great  delight  and  shuddering  took  hold  of  all  my  mind, 
And  up  the  valley  came  again  the  music  on  the  wind. 

But  you  were  sleeping:  and  I  said,  "It's  not  for  them:  it's  mine." 
And  if  it  comes  three  times,  I  thought,  I  take  it  for  a  sign. 
And  once  again  it  came,  and  close  beside  the  window-bars, 
Then  seem'd  to  go  right  up  to  Heaven  and  die  among  the  stars. 

So  now  1  think  my  time  is  near.    I  trust  it  is.    I  know 
The  blessed  music  went  that  way  my  soul  will  have  to  go. 
And  for  myself,  indeed,  I  .care  not  if  I  go  to-day. 
But  Effie,  you  must  comfort  her  when  I  am  past  away. 


"  And  say  to  Robin  n  kind  word,  and  tell  him  not  to  fret : 
Tb«r«'s  many  worthier  than  I.  would  make  him  hapjij-  jt- 


THE  LOTOS-EATERS. 


And  say  to  Robin  a  kind  word,  and  tell  him  not  to  fret ; 
There's  many  worthier  than  I,  would  make  him  happy  yet. 
If  I  had  lived— I  cannot  tell— I  might  have  been  his  wife ; 
But  all  these  things  have  ceased  to  be,  with  my  desire  of  life. 

O  look!  the  sun  begins  to  rise,  the  heavens  are  in  a  glow; 

He  shines  upon  a  hundred  fields,  and  all  of  them  I  know. 

And  there  I  move  no  longer  now,  and  there  his  light  may  shine — 

Wild  flowers  in  the  valley  for  other  hands  than  mine. 

O  sweet  and  strange  it  seems  to  me,  that  ere  this  day  is  done 
The  voice,  that  now  is  speaking,  may  be  beyond  the  sun — 
For  ever  and  for  ever  with  those  just  souls  and  true — 
Aud  what  is  life,  that  we  should  moan  ?  why  make  we  such  ado  ? 

For  ever  and  for  ever,  all  in  a  blessed  home — 

And  there  to  wait  a  little  while  till  you  and  Effle  come — 

To  lie  within  the  light  of  God,  as  I  lie  upon  your  breast — 

And  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling,  and  the  weary  are  at  rest. 


THE  LOTOS-EATERS. 

"  COURAGE  !"  he  said,  and  pointed  toward  the  land, 
"This  mounting  wave  will  roll  us  shoreward  soou." 
In  the  afternoon  they  came  unto  a  land, 
In  which  it  seemed  always  afternoon. 
All  round  the  coast  the  languid  air  did  swoon, 
Breathing  like  one  that  hath  a  weary  dream. 
Full-faced  above  the  valley  stood  the  moon  ; 
And  like  a  downward  smoke,  the  slender  stream 
Along  the  cliff  to  fall  and  pause  and  fall  did  seem. 

A  land  of  streams  !  some,  like  a  downward  smoke, 

Slow-dropping  veils  of  thinnest  lawn,  did  go ; 

And  some  thro'  wavering  lights  and  shadows  broke, 

Rolling  a  slumbrous  sheet  of  foam  below. 

They  saw  the  gleaming  river  seaward  flow 

From  the  inner  land :  far  off,  three  mountain-tops, 

Three  silent  pinnacles  of  aged  snow, 

Stood  sunset-flushed :  aud,  dew'd  with  showery  drops, 

Up-clomb  the  shadowy  pine  above  the  woven  copse. 

The  charmed  sunset  linger'd  low  adown 

In  the  red  West:  thro'  mountain  clefts  the  dale 

Was  seen  far  inland,  and  the  yellow  down 

Border'd  with  palm,- and  many  a  winding  vale 

And  meadow,  set  with  slender  galingale: 

A  land  where  all  things  always  seem'd  the  same ! 

And  round  about  the  keel  with  faces  pale, 

Dark  faces  pale  against  that  rosy  flame, 

The  mild-eyed  melancholy  Lotos-eaters  came. 

Branches  they  bore  of  that  enchanted  stem, 

Laden  with  flower  and  fruit,  whereof  they  gave 

To  each,  but  whoso  did  receive  of  them, 

And  taste,  to  him  the  gushing  of  the  wave 

Far  far  away  did  seem  to  mourn  and  rave 

On  alien  shores ;  and  if  his  fellow  spake, 

His  voice  was  thin,  as  voices  from  the  grave ; 

Arid  deep-asleep  he  seem'd,  yet  all  awake, 

And  music  in  his  ears  his  beating  heart  did  make. 

They  sat  them  down  upon  the  yellow  sand, 
Between  the  sun  and  moon  upon  the  shore ; 
Aud  sweet  it  was  to  dream  of  Fatherland, 
Of  child,  and  wife,  and  slave ;  but  evermore 
Most  weary  seem'd  the  sea,  weary  the  oar, 
Weary  the  wandering  fields  of  barren  foam. 
Then  some  one  said,  "  We  will  return  no  more ;" 
Aud  all  at  once  they  sang,  "Our  island  home 
Is  far  beyond  the  wave;  we  will  no  longer  roam." 

CHORIC  SONG. 

1. 

THERE  is  sweet  music  here  that  softer  falls 
Than  petals  from  blown  roses  on  the  gra«, 


Or  night-dews. on  still  waters  between  walls 
Of  shadowy  granite,  in  a  gleaming  pass ; 
Music  that  gentlier  on  the  spirit  lies, 
Thau  tir'd  eyelids  upon  tir'd  eyes: 
Music  that  brings  sweet  sleep  down  from  the  bliss- 
ful skies. 

Here  are  cool  mosses  deep, 
And  thro'  the  moss  the  ivies  creep, 
And  in  the  stream  the  long-leaved  flowers  weep, 
And  from  the  craggy  ledge  the  poppy  hangs  in  Bleep 

2. 

Why  are  we  weigh'd  upon  with  heaviness, 
j  And  utterly  consumed  with  sharp  distress, 
I  While  all  things  else  have  rest  from  weariness  ? 
'  All  things  have  rest:  why  should  we  toil  alone, 

We  only  toil,  who  are  the  first  of  things, 

And  make  perpetual  moan, 

Still  from  one  sorrow  to  another  thrown : 

Nor  ever  fold  our  wings, 

And  cease  from  wanderings, 

Nor  steep  our  brows  in  slumber's  holy  balm : 

Nor  hearken  what  the  inner  spirit  sings, 

"  There  is  no  joy  but  calm  !" 

Why  should   we  only  toil,  the  roof  and  crown   oi 
things  ? 

3. 

Lo !  in  the  middle  of  the  wood, 

The  folded  leaf  is  woo'd  from  out  the  bud 

With  winds  upon  the  branch,  and  there 

Grows  green  and  broad,  and  takes  no  care, 

Sun-steep'd  at  noon,  and  in  the  moon 

Nightly  dew-fed ;  and  turning  yellow 

Falls,  and  floats  adawu  the  air. 

Lo !  sweeten'd  with  the  summer  light, 

The  full-juiced  apple,  waxing  over-mellow, 

Drops  in  a  silent  autumn  night. 

All  its  allotted  length  of  days, 

The  flower  ripens  in  its  place, 

Ripens  and  fades,  and  falls,  and  hath  no  toil. 

Fast-r.ooted  in  the  fruitful  soil. 


Hateful  is  the  dark-blue  sky, 
Vaulted  o'er  the  dark-blue  sea. 
Death  is  the  end  of  life ;  ah,  why 
Should  life  all  labor  be  ? 
Let  us  alone.    Time  driveth  onward  fast, 
And  in  a  little  while  our  lips  are  dumb. 
Let  ns  alone.    What  is  it  that  will  last  ? 
All  things  are  taken  from  us,  and  become 
Portions  and  parcels  of  the  dreadful  Pa#r. 
Let  us  alone.    What  pleasure  can  we  have 
i  To  war  with  evil  f    Is  there  any  peace 


3(5 


A  DREAM  OF  FAIR  WOMEN. 


la  ever  climbing  up  the  climbing  wave? 
All  things  have  rest,  and  ripen  toward  the  grave 
In  silence;  ripen,  fall  and  cease: 
Give  us  long  rest  or  death,  dark  death,  or  dreamful 
ease. 

5. 

How  sweet  it  were,  hearing  the  downward  stream, 
With  half-shut  eyes  ever  to  seem 
Falling  asleep  in  a  half-dream  ! 
To  dream  and  dream,  like  yonder  amber  light, 
Which  will  not  leave  the  myrrh-bush  on  the  height ; 
To  hear  each  other's  whisper'd  speech; 
Eating  the  Lotos  day  by  day, 
To  watch  the  crisping  ripples  on  the  beach, 
And  tender  curving  lines  of  creamy  spray ; 
To  lend  our  hearts  and  spirits  wholly 
To  the  influence  of  mild-minded  melancholy; 
To  muse  and  brood  and  live  again  iu  memory, 
With  those  old  faces  of  our  infancy 
Heap'd  over  with  a  mound  of  grass, 
Two  haudfuls   of  white   dust,  shut  in   an   urn  of 
brass  1 

6. 

Dear  is  the  memory  of  our  wedded  lives, 
And  dear  the  last  embraces  of  our  wives 
And  their  warm  tears :  but  all  hath  suffer'd  change ; 
For  surely  now  our  household  hearths  are  cold : 
Our  sons  inherit  as :  our  looks  are  strange : 
And  we  should  come  like  ghosts  to  trouble  joy. 
Or  else  the  island  princes  over-bold 
Have  eat  our  substance,  and  the  minstrel  sings 
Before  them  of  the  ten-years'  war  in  Troy, 
And  our  great  deeds,  as  half-forgotten  things. 
Is  there  confusion  in  the  little  isle? 
Let  what  is  broken  so  remain. 
The  Gods  are  hard  to  reconcile: 
'Tis  hard  to  settle  order  once  again. 
There  is  confusion  worse  than  death, 
Trouble  on  trouble,  pain  on  pain, 
Long  labor  unto  aged  breath, 
Sore  task  to  hearts  worn  out  with  many  wars, 
And  eyes  grown  dim  with  gazing  on  the  pilot-stars. 


1. 

Bnt,  propt  on  beds  of  amaranth  and  moly, 
How  sweet  (while  warm  airs  lull  us,  blowing  lowly) 
With  half-dropt  eyelids  still, 
Beneath  a  heaven  dark  and  holy, 
To  watch  the  long  bright  river  drawing  slowly 
His  waters  from  the  purple  hill- 
To  hear  the  dewy  echoes  calling 
From  cave  to  cave  thro'  the  thick-twined  vine— 
To  watch  the  emerald-color'd  water  falling 
Thro'  many  a  wov'u  acanthus-wreath  divine ! 
Only  to  hear  and  see  the  far-off  sparkling  brine, 
Only  to  hear  were  sweet,  stretch'd  out  beneath  the 
pine. 

8. 

The  Lotos  blooms  below  the  barren  peak : 

The  Lotos  blows  by  every  winding  creek : 

All  day  the  wind  breathes  low  with  mellowertone 

Thro'  every  hollow  cave  and  alley  lone 

Round  and  round  the  spicy  downs  the  yellow  Lotos 

dust  is  blown. 

We  have  had  enough  of  action,  and  of  motion  we, 
Roll'd    to   starboard,  roll'd    to   larboard,  when   the 

surge  was  seething  free, 
Where  the   wallowing  monster   spouted  his   foam 

fountains  in  the  sea. 
Let  us  swear  an  oath,  and  keep  it  'with  an  equa 

mind, 

In  the  hollow  Lotos-land  to  live  and  lie  reclined 
On  the  hills  like  Gods  together,  careless  of  man 

kind. 


'or  they  lie  beside  their  nectar,  and  the  bolts  are 

hurl'd 
'ar  below  them  in  the  valleys,  and  the  clouds  are 

lightly  curl'd 

Round  their  golden  houses,  girdled  with  the  gleam- 
ing world  : 
Where  they  smile  in  secret,  looking  over  wasted 

lauds, 
Blight  and  famine,  plague  and  earthquake,  roaring 

deeps  and  fiery  sands, 
langiug   fights,  and    flaming   towns,  and   sinking 

ships,  and  praying  hands. 

But  they  smile,  they  find  a  music  centred  in  a  dole- 
ful song 
Steaming  up,  a  lamentation  and  an  ancient  tale  of 

wrong, 
ike  a  tale   of  little  meaning  tho'  the  words  are 

strong ; 
ihauted  from  an  ill-used  race  of  men  that  cleave 

the  soil, 
Sow  the  seed,  and  reap  the  harvest  with  enduring 

toil, 

Storing  yearly  little  dues  of  wheat,  and  wine,  and  oil ; 
Till   they  perish   and  they  suffer— some,  'tis   whis- 
pered— down  in  hell 
Suffer   endless   anguish,  others   in    Elysian   valleys 

dwell, 

Resting  weary  limbs  at  last  on  beds  of  asphodel. 
Surely,  surely,  slumber  is  more  sweet  than  toil,  the 

shore 
Than  labor  in  the  deep  mid-ocean,  wind  and  wave 

and  oar; 

O   rest  ye,  brother   mariners,  we   will  not   wander 
more. 


A  DREAM  OF  FAIR  WOMEN. 

I  EEAD,  before  my  eyelids  dropt  their  shade, 
"  The  Legend  of  Good  Women,"  long  ago 

Sung  by  the  morning  star  of  song,  who  made 
His  music  heard  below; 

Dan  Chaucer,  the  first  warbler,  whose  sweet  breath 
Preluded  those  melodious  bursts  that  fill 

The  -spacious  times  of  great  Elizabeth 
With  sounds  that  echo  stilk 

And,  for  a  while,  the  knowledge  of  his  art 
Held  me  above  the 'subject,  as  strong  gales 

Hold  swollen  clouds  from  raining,  tho'  my  heart, 
Brimful  of  those  wild  tales, 

Charged  both  mine  eyes  with  tears.    In  every  land 

I  saw,  wherever  light  illumineth, 
Beauty  and  anguish  walking  hand  in  hand 

The  downward  slope  to  death. 

Those  far-renowned  brides  of  ancient  song 

Peopled  the  hollow  dark,  like  burning  stars, 

And  I  heard  sounds  of  insult,  shame,  and  wrong, 
And  trumpets  blown  for  wars; 

And  clattering  flints  batter'd  with  clanging  hoof*  • 
And  I  saw  crowds  in  column'd  sanctuaries ; 

And  forms  that  pass'd  at  windows  and  on  roofs 
Of  marble  palaces; 

Corpses  across  the  threshold;  heroes  tall 

Dislodging  pinnacle  and  parapet 
Upon  the  tortoise  creeping  to  the  wall; 

Lances  in  ambush  set; 

And   high    shrine -doors    burst    thro'   with   heated 
blasts 

That  run  before  the  fluttering  tongues  of  fire ; 
White  surf  wind-scatter' d  over  sails  and  inasts, 

And  ever  climbing  higher; 


A  DREAM  OF  FAIR  WOMEN. 


Squadrons  and  squares  of  men  in  brazen  plates, 
Scaffolds,  still  sheets  of  water,  divers  woes, 

Ranges  of  glimmering  vaults  with  iron  grates, 
And  hush'd  seraglios. 

So  shape  chased  shape  as  swift  as,  when  to  land 
Bluster  the  winds  and  tides  the  self-same  way, 

Crisp  foam-flakes  scud  along  the  level  sand, 
Torn  from  the  fringe  of  spray. 

I  started  once,  or  seem'd  to  start  in  pain, 

Resolved  on  noble  things,  and  strove  to  speak, 

As  when  a  great  thought  strikes  along  the  brain, 
And  flushes  all  the  cheek. 

And  once  my  arm  was  lifted  to  hew  down 
A  cavalier  from  off  his  saddle-bow, 

That  bore  a  lady  from  a  leagner'd  town ; 
And  then,  I  know  not  how, 

All  those  sharp  fancies  by  down-lapsing  thought 
Stream'd  onward,  lost  their  edges,  and  did  creep 

Roll'd  on  each  other,  rounded,  smooth'd,  and  brought 
Into  the  gulfs  of  sleep. 

At  last  methonght  that  I  had  wandered  far 

In  an  old  wood:  fresh-wash'd  in  coolest  dew, 

The  maiden  splendors  of  the  morning  star 
Shook  in  the  steadfast  blue. 

Enormous  elm-tree  boles  did  stoop  and  lean 
Upon  the  dusky  brushwood  underneath 

Their  broad  curved  branches,  fledged  with  clearest 

green, 
New  from  its  silken  sheath. 

The  dim  red  morn  had  died,  her  journey  done, 
And  with  dead  lips  smiled  at  the  twilight  plain, 

Half-fall'n  across  the  threshold  of  the  sun, 
Never  to  rise  again. 

There  was  no  motion  in  the  dumb  dead  air, 
Not  any  song  of  bird  or  sound  of  rill ; 

Gross  darkness  of  the  inner  sepulchre 
Is  not  so  deadly  still 

As  that  wide  forest.  Growths  of  jasmine  tnrn'd 
Their  humid  arms  festooning  tree  to  tree, 

And  at  the  root  thro'  lush  green  grasses  burn'd 
The  red  anemone. 

I  knew  the  flowers,  I  knew  the  leaves,  I  knew 
The  tearful  glimmer  of  the  languid  dawn 

On  those  long,  rank,  dark  wood-walks  drench'd  in 

dew, 
Leading  from  lawn  to  lawn. 

The  smell  of  violets,  hidden  in  the  green, 

Pour'd  back  into  my  empty  sonl  and  frame 

The  times  when  I  remember  to  have  been 
Joyful  and  free  from  blame. 

And  from  within  me  a  clear  nnder-tone 

Thrill'd  thro'  mine  ears  in  that  nnblissfnl  clime, 

"  Pass  freely  thro' :  the  wood  is  all  thine  own, 
Until  the  end  of  time." 

At  length  I  saw  a  lady  within  call, 

Stiller  than  chisell'd  marble,  standing  there ; 
A  daughter  of  the  gods,  divinely  tall, 

And  most  divinely  fair. 

Her  loveliness  with  shame  and  with  surprise 

Froze  my  swift  speech ;  she  turning  on  my  face 

The  star-like  sorrows  of  immortal  eyes, 
Spoke  slowly  in  her  place. 

"  I  had  great  beanty ;  ask  thon  not  my  name : 
No  one  can  be  more  wise  than  destiny. 


Many  drew  swords  and  died.  Where'er  I  came 
I  brought  calamity." 

"No  marvel,  sovereign  lady:  in  fair  field 
Myself  for  such  a  face  had  boldly  died." 

I  answer'd  free ;  and  turning  I  appeal'd 
To  one  that  stood  beside. 

But  she,  with  sick  and  scornful  looks  averse, 

To  her  full  height  her  stately  stature  draws ; 
"My  youth,"  she  said,  "was  blasted  with  a  curse: 
This  woman  was  the  cause. 

"I  was  cut  off  from  hope  in  that  sad  place, 

Which  yet  to  name  my  spirit  loathes  and  fears : 

My  father  held  his  hand  upon  his  face : 
I,  blinded  with  my  tears, 

"Still  strove  to  speak:  my  voice  was  thick  with 
sighs 

As  in  a  dream.    Dimly  I  could  descry 
The  stern  black-bearded  kings  with  wolfish  eyes, 

Waiting  to  see  me  die. 

"The  high  masts  flicker'd  as  they  lay  afloat; 

The  crowds,  the  temples,  waver'd,  and  the  shore ; 
The  bright  death  quiver'd  at  the  victim's  throat; 

Touch'd;  and  I  knew  no  more." 

Whereto  the  other  with  a  downward  brow  : 

"I  would  the  white  cold  heavy-plunging  foam, 

Whirl'd  by  the  wind,  had  roll'd  me  deep  below, 
Then  when  I  left  my  home." 

Her  slow  full  words  sank  thro'  the  silence  drear, 
As  thunder-drops  fall  on  a  sleeping  sea ; 

Sudden  I  heard  a  voice  that  cried,  "Come  here, 
That  I  may  look  on  thee." 

I  turning  saw,  throned  on  a  flowery  rise, 
One  sitting  on  a  crimson  scarf  nnroll'd  ; 

A  queen,  with  swarthy  cheeks  and  bold  black  eyes, 
Brow-bound  with  burning  gold. 

She,  flashing  forth  a  haughty  smile,  began : 

"I  govern'd  men  by  change,  and  so  I  sway'd 

All  moods.  'Tis  long  since  I  have  seen  a  man. 
Once,  like  the  moon,  I  made 

"The  ever-shifting  currents  of  the  blood 
According  to  my  humor  ebb  and  flow. 

[  have  no  men  to  govern  in  this  wood : 
That  makes  my  only  woe. 

"Nay— yet  it  chafes  me  that  I  could  not  bend 
One  will ;  nor  tame  and  tutor  with  mine  eye 

That  dull  cold-blooded  Caesar.  Prythee,  friend, 
Where  is  Mark  Antony? 

"The  man,  my  lover,  with  whom  I  rode  sublime 
On  Fortune's  neck :  we  sat  as  God  by  God : 

The  Nilus  would  have  risen  before  his  time 
And  flooded  at  our  nod. 

"We  drank  the  Libyan  Sun  to  sleep,  and  lit 
Lamps  which  outbnrn'd  Canopns.    O  my  life 

In  Egypt !  O  the  dalliance  and  the  wit, 
The  flattery  and  the  strife, 

"And  the  wild  kiss,  when  fresh  from  war's  alarms, 

My  Hercules,  my  Roman  Antony, 
My  mailed  Bacchus  leapt  into  my  arms, 

Contented  there  to  die! 

"And  there  he  died:  and  when  I  heard  my  name 
Sigh'd  forth  with  life  I  would  not  brook  my  feal 

Of  the  other :  with  a  worm  I  balk'd  his  fame. 
What  else  was  left  ?  look  here  1" 


A  DREAM  OF  FAIR  WOMEN. 


(With  that  she  tore  her  robe  apart,  and  half 
The  pohsh'd  argent  of  her  breast  to  sight 

Laid  bare.    Thereto  she  pointed  with  a  laugh, 
Showing  the  aspic's  bite.) 

"I  died  a  Queen.    The  Roman  soldier  found 
Me  lying  dead,  my  crown  about  my  brows, 

A  name  forever ! — lying  robed  and  crown'd, 
Worthy  a  Roman  spouse." 

Her  warbling  voice,  a  lyre  of  widest  range 

Struck  by  all  passion,  did  fall  down  and  glance 

From  tone  to  tone,  aud  glided  thro1  all  change 
Of  liveliest  utterance. 

When  she  made  pause  I  knew  not  for  delight; 

Because  with  sudden  motion  from  the  ground 
She  raised  her  piercing  orbs,  aud  flll'd  with  light 

The  interval  of  sound. 

Still  with  their  fires  Love  tipt  his  keenest  darts ; 

As  once  they  drew  into  two  burning  rings 
All  beams  of  Love,  melting  the  mighty  hearts 

Of  captains  and  of  kings. 

Slowly  my  sense  undazzled.    Then  I  heard 

A  noise  of  some  one  coming  thro'  the  lawn, 

Aud  singing  clearer  than  the  crested  bird, 
That  claps  his  wings  at  dawn. 

"  The  torrent  brooks  of  hallow'd  Israel 

From  craggy  hollows  pouring,  late  and  soon, 

Sound  all  night  long,  in  falling  thro'  the  dell, 
Far-heard  beneath  the  moon. 

"The  balmy  moon  of  blessed  Israel 

Floods  all  the  deep-blue  gloom  with  beams  di- 
vine: 
All  night  the  splinter'd  crags  that  wall  the  dell 

With  spires  of  silver  shine." 

As  one  that  mnseth  where  broad  snnshine  laves 
The  lawn  of  some  cathedral,  thro'  the  door 

Hearing  the  holy  organ  rolling  waves 
Of  sound  on  roof  and  floor 

Within,  and  anthem  sung,  is  charm'd  and  tied 

To  where  he  stands, — so  stood  I,  when  that  flow 

Of  music  left  the  lips  of  her  that  died 
To  save  her  father's  vow; 

The  daughter  of  the  warrior  Gileadite, 

A  maiden  pure ;  as  when  she  went  along 

From  Mizpeh's  tower'd  gate  with  welcome  light, 
With  timbrel  and  with  song. 

My  words  leapt  forth  :  "  Heaven  heads  the  count  of 
crimes 

With  that  wild  oath."  She  render'd  answer  high : 
"Not  so,  nor  once  alone;  a  thousand  times 

I  would  be  born  and  die. 

"Single  I  grew,  like  some  green  plant,  whose  root 
Creeps  to  the  garden  water-pipes  beneath, 

Feeding  the  flower ;  but  ere  my  flower  to  fruit 
Changed,  I  was  ripe  for  death. 

"My  God,  my  land,  my  father, — these  did  move 
Me  from  my  bliss  of  life,  that  Nature  gave, 

Lower'd  softly  with  a  threefold  cord  of  love 
Down  to  a  silent  grave. 

"And  I  went  mourning,  'No  fair  Hebrew  boy 
Shall  sm..e  away  my  maiden  blame  among 

The  Hebrew  mothers'  — emptied  of  all  joy 
Leaving  the  dance  and  song, 

"  Leaving  the  olive-gardens  far  below, 

Leaving  the  promise  of  my  bridal  bower, 


The  valleys  of  grape-loaded  vines  that  glow 
Beneath  the  battled  tower. 

"  The  light  white  cloud  swam  over  u=.  Anon 
We  heard  the  lion  roaring  from  his  den ; 

We  saw  the  large  white  stars  rise  one  by  one 
Or,  from  the  darkeu'd  glen, 

"Saw  God  divide  the  night  with  flying  flame. 

And  thunder  on  the  everlasting  hills. 
I  heard  Him,  for  He  spake,  and  grief  became 

A  solemn  scorn  of  ills. 

"When  the  next  moon  was  roll'd  into  the  sky. 
Strength  came  to  me  that  equall'd  my  desire. 

How  beautiful  a  thing  it  was  to  die 
Fqr  God  and  for  my  sire  ! 

"It  comforts  me  in  this  one  thought  to  dwell, 
That  I  subdued  me  to  my  father's  will; 

Because  the  kiss  he  gave  me,  ere  I  fell, 
Sweetens  the  spirit  still. 

"Moreover  it  is  written  that  my  race 

Hew'd  Ammon,  hip  and  thigh,  from  Aroer 

On  Arnon  unto  Minneth."     Here  her  face 
Glow'd,  as  I  look'd  at  her. 

She  lock'd  her  lips ;  she  left  me  where  I  stood  : 
"  Glory  to  God,"  she  sang,  and  past  afar, 

Thriclding  the  sombre  boskage  of  the  wood, 
Toward  the  morning-star. 

Losing  her  carol  I  stood  pensively, 

As  one  that  from  a  casement  leans  his  head, 
When  midnight  bells  cease  ringing  suddenly, 

And  the  old  year  is  dead. 

"Alas!  alas!"  a  low  voice,  full  of  care, 

Mnrmnr'd  beside  me:  "Tarn  and  look  on  me: 

I  am  that  Rosamond,  whom  men  call  fair, 
If  what  I  was  I  be. 

"Would  I  had  been  some  maiden  coarse  and  poor' 
O  me,  that  I  should  ever  see  the  light ! 

Those  dragpn  eyes  of  anger'd  Eleanor 
Do  hunt  me,  day  and  night." 

She  ceased  in  tears,  fallen  from  hope  and  trust : 
To  whom  the  Egyptian  :  "  O,  you  tamely  died  ! 

Yon  should  have  clung  to  Fulvia's  waist,  and  thrust 
The  dagger  thro'  her  side." 

With  that  sharp  sound  the  white  dawn's   creeping 
beams, 

Stol'n  to  my  brain,  dissolved  the  mystery 
Of  folded  sleep.    The  captain  of  my  dreams 

Ruled  In  the  eastern  sky. 

Morn  broaden'd  on  the  borders  of  the  dark, 

Ere  I  saw  her,  who  clasp'd  in  her  last  trance 

Her  murder'd  father's  head,  or  Joan  of  Arc, 
A  light  of  ancient  France; 

Or  her,  who  knew  that  Love  can  vanquish  Death, 
Who  kneeling,  with  one  arm  about  her  king, 

Drew  forth  the  poison  with  her  balmy  breath, 
Sweet  as  new  buds  in  Spring. 

No  memory  labors  longer  from  the  deep 

Gold-mines  of  thought  to  lift  the  hidden  ore 

That  glimpses,  moving  up,  than  I  from  sleep 
To  gather  and  tell  o'er 

Each  little  sound  and  sight.    With  what  dull  pain 
Compass'd,  how  eagerly  I  sought  to  strike 

Into  that  wondrous  track  of  dreams  again  ! 
But  no  two  dreams  are  like. 


MARGARET.— THE  BLACKBIRD.— THE  DEATH  OF  THE  OLD  YEAR. 


As  when  a  soul  laments,  which  hath  been  blest, 
Desiring  what  is  mingled  with  past  years, 

In  yearnings  that  can  never  be  exprest 
By  signs  or  groans  or  tears ; 

Because  all  words,  tho'  cnll'd  with  choicest  art, 
Failing  to  give  the  bitter  of  the  sweet, 

Wither  beneath  the  palate,  and  the  heart 
Faiuts,  faded  by  its  heat. 


MARGARET. 

l. 

O  BWF.ET  pale  Margaret, 

O  rare  pale  Margaret, 
What  lit  your  eyes  with  tearful  power, 
Like  moonlight  on  a  falling  shower? 
Who  lent  you,  love,  your  mortal  dower 

Of  pensive  thought  abd  aspect  pale, 

Your  melancholy  sweet  and  frail 
As  perfume  of  the  cuckoo-flower  ? 
From  the  westward-winding  flood, 
From  the  evening-lighted  wood, 

From  all  things  outward  you  have  woo 
A  tearful  grace,  as  tho'  you  stood 

Between  the  rainbow  and  the  sun. 
The  very  smile  before  you  speak, 
That  dimples  your  transparent  cheek, 
Encircles  all  the  heart,  and  feedeth 
The  senses  with  a  still  delight 

Of  dainty  sorrow  without  sound, 

Like  the  tender  amber  round, 
Which  the  moon  about  her  spreadeth, 
Moving  thro'  a  fleecy  night. 


You  love,  remaining  peacefully, 

To  hear  the  murmur  of  the  strife, 
But  enter  not  the  toil  of  life. 

Your  spirit  is  the  calmed  sea, 

Laid  by  the  tumult  of  the  fight. 

You  are  the  evening  star,  alway 

Remaining  betwixt  dark  and  bright : 

Lull'J  echoes  of  laborious  day 

Come  to  you,  gieams  of  mellow  light 
Float  by  you  on  the  verge  of  night. 

3. 

What  can  it  matter,  Margaret, 

What  songs  below  the  waning  stars 

The  lion-heart,  Plantagenet, 

Sang  looking  thro'  his  prison  bars? 
Exquisite  Margaret,  who  can  tell 

The  last  wild  thought  of  Chatelet, 
Just  ere  the  fallen  axe  did  part 
The  burning  brain  from  the  true  heart, 
Even  in  her  sight  he  loved  so  well? 


A  fairy  shield  your  Genius  made 

And  gave  you  on  your  natal  day. 
Your  sorrow,  only  sorrow's  shade, 

Keeps  real  sorrow  far  away. 
You  move  not  in  such  solitudes, 

You  are  not  less  divine, 
But  more  human  in  your  moods, 

Than  your  twin-sister,  Adeline. 
Your  hair  is  darker,  and  your  eyes 

Touch'd  with  a  somewhat  darker  hue, 

And  less  aerially  blue 

But  ever  trembling  thro'  the  dew 
Of  diiiuty-woful  sympathies. 

5. 

O  sweet  pale  Margaret, 
O  rare  pale  Margaret, 


Come  down,  come  down,  and  hear  me  speak : 
Tie  up  the  ringlets  on  your  cheek: 

The  sun  is  just  about  to  set. 
The  arching  limes  are  tall  and  shady, 
And  faint,  rainy  lights  are  seen. 

Moving  in  the  leafy  beech. 
Rise  from  the  feast  of  sorrow,  lady, 

Where  all  day  long  you  sit  between 

Joy  and  woe,  and  whisper  each. 
Or  only  look  across  the  lawn, 

Look  out  below  your  bower-eaves, 

Look  down,  and  let  your  blue  eyes  dawn 

Upon  me  thro'  the  jasmine-leaves. 


THE  BLACKBIRD. 

O  BLACKBIRD  !  sing  me  something  well  : 
While  all  the  neighbors  shoot  the  round, 
I  keep  smooth  plats  of  fruitful  ground, 

Where  thou  may'st  warble,  eat,  and  dwell. 

The  espaliers  and  the  standards  all 
Are  thine:  the  range  of  lawn  and  park: 
The  nnnetted  black-hearts  ripen  dark, 

All  thine,  against  the  garden  wall. 

Yet,  tho*  I  spared  thee  all  the  Spring, 
Thy  sole  delight  is,  sitting  still, 
With  that  gold  dagger  of  thy  bill 

To  fret  the  Summer  jenneting.' 

A  golden  bill !  the  silver  tongue, 

Cold  February  loved,  is  dry : 

Plenty  corrupts  the  melody 
That  made  thee  famous  once,  when  young: 

And  in  the  sultry  garden-squares, 
Now  thy  flute-notes  are  changed  to  coarse, 
I  hear  thee  not  at  all,  or  hoarse 

As  when  a  hawker  hawks  his  wares 

Take  warning!  he  that  will  not  sin? 
While  yon  sun  prospers  in  the  blue. 
Shall  sing  for  want,  ere  leaves  are  new, 

Caught  in  the  frozen  palms  of  Spring. 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  OLD  YEAR 

FULL  knee-deep  lies  the  winter  snow. 
And  the  winter  winds  are  wearily  sighing: 
Toll  ye  the  church-bell  sad  and  slow, 
And  tread  softly  and  speak  low, 
For  the  old  year  lies  a-dying. 

Old  year,  you  must  not  die  : 

You  came  to  us  so  readily, 

You  lived  with  us  so  steadily, 

Old  year,  you  shall  not  die. 

He  lieth  still :  he  doth  not  move : 

He  will  not  see  the  dawn  of  day. 

He  hath  no  other  life  above. 

He  gave  me  a  friend,  and  a  true,  true-love, 

And  the  New-year  will  take  'em  away. 

Old  year,  you  must  not  go; 

So  long  as  you  have  been  with  n«, 

Such  joy  as  you  have  seen  with  us, 

Old  year,  yon  shall  not  go. 

He  froth'd  his  bumpers  to  the  brim , 
A  jollier  year  we  shall  not  see. 
But  tho'  his  eyes  are  waxing  dim, 
And  tho'  his  foes  speak  ill  of  him, 
lie  was  a  friend  to  me. 


40 


TO  J.  S. 


"  Toll  ye  the  church-bell  ead  and  »lov 
And  tread  softly  and  speak  low, 
For  the  old  year  lies  a-dying." 


Old  year,  yon  shall  not  die ; 
We  did  so  laugh  and  cry  with  yon, 
I've  half  a  mind  to  die  with  you, 
Old  year,  if  you  must  die. 

He  was  full  of  joke  and  jesi, 
But  all  his  merry  quips  are  oer. 
To  see  him  die  across  the  waste 
His  son  and  heir  doth  ride  post-haste, 
But  he'll  be  dead  before. 

Every  one  for  his  own. 

The  night  is  starry  and  cold,  my  friend, 

And  the  New-year  blithe  and  bold,  my  friend, 

Comes  up  to  take  his  own. 

How  hard  he  breathes !  over  the  snow 
I  heard  just  now  the  crowing  cock. 
The  shadows  flicker  to  and  fro : 
The  cricket  chirps:  the  light  burns  low: 
'Tis  nearly  twelve  o'clock. 

Shake  hands,  before  you  die. 

Old  year,  we'll  dearly  rue  for  you : 

What  is  it  we  can  do  for  you? 

Speak  out  before  you  die. 

His  face  is  growing  sharp  and  thin. 
Alack  1  our  friend  is  gone, 
Close  up  his  eyes:  tie  up  his  chin: 
Step  from  the  corpse,  and  let  him  in 
That  standeth  there  alone, 

And  waiteth  at  the  door. 

There's  a  new  foot  on  the  floor,  my  friend, 

And  a  new  face  at  the  door,  my  friend, 

A  new  face  at  the  door. 


TO  J.  S. 


THE  wind,  that  beats  the  mountain,  blows 
More  softly  round  the  open  wold, 

And  gently  comes  the  world  to  those 
That  are  cast  in  gentle  mould. 

And  me  this  knowledge  bolder  made, 

Or  else  I  had  not  dare  to  flow 
In  these  words  toward  you,  and  invade 

Even  with  a  verse  your  holy  woe. 

'Tis  strange  that  those  we  lean  on  most, 

Those  in  whose  laps  our  limbs  are  nursed. 

Fall  into  shadow,  soonest  lost: 

Those  we  love  first  are  taken  first. 

God  gives  ns  love.    Something  to  love 
He  lends  us ;  but,  when  love  is  grown 

To  ripeness,  that  on  which  it  throve 
Falls  off,  and  love  is  left  alone. 

This  is  the  cnrse  of  time.    Alas ! 

In  grief  I  am  not  all  unlearu'd ; 
Once  thro'  mine  own  doors  Death  did  pass ; 

One  went,  who  never  hath  return'd. 

He  will  not  smile— nor  speak  to  me 

Once  more.    Two  years  his  chair  is  seen 

Empty  before  ns.    That  was  he 

Without  whose  life  I  had  not  been. 

Your  loss  is  rarer;  for  this  star 
Rose  with  you  thro'  a  little  arc 


YOU  ASK  ME  WHY.— LOVE  THOU  THY  LAND. 


41 


Of  heaven,  nor  having  wander'd  far 
Shot  on  the  sudden  into  dark. 

I  knew  your  brother:  his  mute  dust 

I  honor  and  his  living  worth : 
A  man  more  pure  and  bold  and  just 

Was  never  bora  into  the  earth. 

I  have  not  look'd  upon  you  nigh, 

Since  that  dear  soul  hath  fall'n  asleep. 

Great  Nature  is  more  wise  than  I : 
I  will  not  tell  you  not  to  weep. 

And  tho'  mine  own  eyes  fill  with  clew, 
Drawn  from  the  spirit  thro'  the  brain, 

I  will  not  even  preach  to  you, 

"Weep,  weeping  dulls  the  inward  pain." 

Let  'Grief  be  her  own  mistress  still. 

She  loveth  her*  own  anguish  deep 
More  than  much  pleasure.    Let  her  will 

Be  done — to  weep  or  not  to  weep. 

I  will  not  say  "God's  ordinance 

Of  death  is  blown  in  *very  wind';" 

For  that  is  not  a  common  chance 
That  takes  away  a  noble  mind. 

His  memory  long  will  live  alone 

In  all  our  hearts,  as  mournful  light 

That  broods  above  the  fallen  sun, 

And  dwells  in  heaven  half  the  night. 

Vain  solace !  Memory  standing  near 

Cast  down  her  eyes,  and  in  her  throat 

Her  voice  seem'd  distant,  and  a  tear 
Dropt  on  the  letters  as  I  wrote. 

I  wrote  I  know  not  what  In  truth, 
How  should  1  soothe  you  anyway, 

Who  miss  the  brother  t>f  your  youth  ? 
Yet  something  I  did  wish  to  say: 

For  he  too  was  a  friend  to  me: 

Both  are  my  friends,- and  my  true  breast 
Bleedeth  for  both:  yet  it  may  be 

That  only  silence  suiteth  best. 

Words  weaker  than  your  grief  would  make 
Grief  more.    'Twere  better  I  should  cease ; 

Although  myself  could  almost  take 

The  place  of  him  that  sleeps  in  peace. 

Sleep  sweetly,  tender  heart,  in  peace ; 

Sleep,  holy  spirit,  blessed  soul, 
While  the  stars  burn,  the  moons  increase, 

And  the  great  ages  onward  roll. 

Sleep  till  the  end,  true  soul  and  sweet. 

Nothing  comes  to  thee  new  or  strange, 
Sleep  full  of  rest  from  head  to  feet ; 

Lie  still,  dry  dust,  secure  of  change. 


Yon  ask  me,  why,  tho'  ill  at  ease, 
Within  this  region  I  subsist, 
Whose  spirits  falter  in  the  mist, 

And  languish  for  the  purple  seas? 

It  is  the  land  that  freemen  till, 

That  sober-suited  Freedom  chose, 

The  land,  where  girt  with  friends  or  foes 

A  man  may  speak  the  thing  he  will ; 

A  land  of  settled  government, 

A  land  of  just  and  old  renown, 
Where  freedom  broadens  slowly  down 

From  precedent  to  precedent : 


Where  faction  seldom  gathers  head, 
But  by  degrees  to  fulness  wrought, 
The  strength  of  some  diffusive  thought 

Hath  time  and  space  to  work  and  spread. 

Should  banded  unions  persecute 
Opinion,  and  induce  a  time 
When  single  thought  is  civil  crime, 

And  individual  freedom  mute  ; 

Tho'  Power  should  make  from  land  to  land 
The  name  of  Britain  trebly  great — 
Tho'  every  channel  of  the  State 

Should  almost  choke  with  golden  sand — 

Yet  waft  me  from  the  harbor-mouth, 
Wild  wind!    I  seek  a  warmer  sky, 
And  I  will  see  before  I  die 

The  palms  and  temples  of  the  South. 


OF  old  sat  Freedom  on  the  heights, 
The  thunders  breaking  at  her  feet: 

Above  her  shook  the  starry  lights: 
She  heard  the  torrents  meet. 

There  in  her  place  she  did  rejoice, 
Self-gather'd  in  her  prophet-mind, 

But  fragments  of  her  mighty  voice 
Come  rolling  on  the  wind. 

Then  slept  she  down  thro'  town  and  field 
To  mingle  with  the  human  race, 

And  part  by  part  to  men  reveal'd 
The  fulness  of  her  face — 

Grave  mother  of  majestic  works, 
From  her  isle-altar  gazing  down, 

Who,  God-like,  grasps  the  triple  forks, 
And,  King-like,  wears  the  crown : 

Her  open  eyes  desire  the  truth. 

The  wisdom  of  a  thousand  years 
Is  in  them.    May  perpetual  youth 

Keep  dry  their  light  from  tears ; 

That  her  fair  form  may  stand  and  shine, 

Make  bright  our  days  and  light  our  dream?; 

Turning  to  scorn  with  lips  divine 
The  falsehood  of  extremes  1 


LOVE  then  thy  land,  with  love  far-brought 
From  out  the  storied  Past,  and  used 
Within  the  Present,  but  transfused 

Thro'  future  time  by  power  of  thought. 

True  love  turn'd  round  on  fixed  poles, 
Love,  that  endures  not  sordid  ends, 
For  English  natures,  freemen,  friends, 

Thy  brothers  and  immortal  souls. 

But  pamper  not  a  hasty  time, 
Nor  feed  with  crade  imaginings 
The  herd,  wild  hearts  and  feeble  wings, 

That  every  sophister  can  lime. 

Deliver  not  the  tasks  of  might 
To  weakness,  neither  hide  the  ray 
From  those,  not  blind,  who  wait  for  day. 

Tho'  sitting  girt  with  doubtful  light. 


42 


THE  GOOSE. 


Make  knowledge  circle  with  the  winds: 
But  let  her  herald,  Reverence,  fly 
Before  her  to  whatever  sky 

Bear  seed  of  men  and  growth  of  minds. 

Watch  what  main-currents  draw  the  years : 
Cut  Prejudice  against  the  grain : 
But  gentle  words  are  always  gain : 

Regard  the  weakness  of  thy  peers : 

Nor  toil  for  title,  place,  or  touch 
Of  peusion,  neither  count  on  praise  : 
It  grows  to  guerdon  after-days  : 

Nor  deal  in  watch-words  over-much ; 

Not  clinging  to  some  ancient  saw; 

Not  master'd  by  some  modern  term  ; 

Not  swift  or  slow  to  change,  but  firm : 
And  in  its  season  bring  the  law; 

That  from  Discussion's  lip  may  fall 
With  Life,  that,  working  strongly,  biuds- 
Set  in  all  lights  by  many  minds, 

To  close  the  interests  of  all. 

For  Nature,  also,  cold  and  warm, 
And  moist  and  dry,  devising  long, 
Thro'  many  agents  makfng  strong, 

Matures  the  individual  form. 

Meet  is  it  changes  should  control 
Our  being,  lest  we  rust  in  ease. 
We  all  are  changed  by  still  degrees, 

All  but  the  basis  of  the  soul. 

So  let  the  change  which  comes  be  free 
To  ingroove  itself  with  that,  which  flies, 
And  work,  a  joint  of  state,  that  plies 

Its  office,  moved  with  sympathy. 

A  saying,  hard  to  efcape  in  act; 
For  all  the  past  of  Time  reveals 
A  bridal  dawn  of  thunder-peals, 

Wherever  Thought  hath  wedded  Fact. 

Ev'n  now  we  hear  with  inward  strife 
A  motion  toiling  in  the  gloom— 
The  Spirit  of  the  years  to  come 

Yearning  to  mix  himself  with  Life. 

A  slow-develop'd  strength  awaits 
Completion  in  a  painful  school ; 
Phantoms  of  other  forms  of  rule, 

New  Majesties  of  mighty  States — 

The  warders  of  the  growing  hour, 
But  vague  in  vapor,  hard  to  mark ; 
'And  round  them  sea  and  air  are  dark 

With  great  contrivances  of  Power. 

Of  many  changes,  aptly  join'd, 
Is  bodied  forth  the  second  whole. 
Regard  gradation,  lest  the  soul 

Of  Discord  race  the  rising  wind ; 

A  wind  to  puff  your  idol-fires, 
And  heap  their  ashes  on  the  head ;  • 
To  shame  the  boast  so  often  made, 

That  we  are  wiser  than  our  sires. 

O  yet,  if  Nature's  evil  star 
Drive  men  in  manhood,  as  in  youth, 
To  follow  flying  steps  of  Truth 

Across  the  brazen  bridge  of  war — 

If  New  and  Old,  disastrous  feud, 
Must  ever  shock,  like  armed  foes, 
And  this  be  true,  till  Time  shall  close, 

That  Principles  are  rain'd  in  blood; 


Not  yet  the  wise  of  heart  would  cease 
To  hold  his  hope  thro'  shame  and  guilt, 
But  with  his  hand  against  the  hilt, 

Would  pace  the  troubled  laud,  like  Peace 

Not  less,  tho'  dogs  of  Faction  bay, 
Would  serve  his  kind  in  deed  and  word, 
Certain,  if  knowledge  bring  the  sword, 

That  knowledge  takes  the  sword  away — 

Would  love  the  gleams  of  good  that  brokt 
From  either  side,  nor  veil  his  eyes: 
And  if  some  dreadful  need  should  rise 

Would  strike,  and  firmly,  and  one  stroke     • 

To-morrow  yet  would  reap  to-day, 
As  we  bear  blossom  of  the  dead ; 
Earn  well  the  thrifty  months,  nor  wed 

Raw  Haste,  half-sister  to  -Delay. 


THE  GOOSE. 

• 

I  KNEW  an  old  wife  lean  and  poor, 

Her  rags  scarce  held  together ; 
There  strode  a  stranger  to  the  door, 

And  it  was  windy  weather. 

He  held  a  goose  upon  his  arm, 

He  utter'd  rhyme  and  reason, 
"  Here,  take  the  goose,  and  keep  you  w.irm, 

It  is  a  stormy  season." 

She  caught  the  white  goose  by  the  leg. 

A  goose — 'twas  no  great  matter. 
The  goose  let  fall  a  golden  egg 

With  cackle  and  with  clatter. 

She  dropt  the  goose,  and  caught  the  pelf, 

And  ran  to  tell  her  neighbors ; 
And  bless'd  herself,  and  cursed  herself, 

And  rested  from  her  labors. 

And  feeding  high,  and  living  soft, 

Grew  plump  and  able-bodied  ; 
Until  the  grave  churchwarden  dofTd, 

The  parson  smirk'd  and  nodded. 

So  sitting,  served  by  man  and  maid, 
She  felt  her  heart  grow  prouder: 

But  ah  !  the  more  the  white  goose  laid 
It  clack'd  and  cackled  louder. 

It  clutter'd  here,  it  chuckled  there ; 

It  stirr'd  the  old  wife's  mettle: 
She  shifted  in  her  elbow-chair, 

And  hurl'd  the  pan  and  kettle. 

"  A  quinsy  choke  thy  cursed  note  1" 
Then  wax'd  her  anger  stronger. 

"Go,  take  the  goose,  and  wring  her  throat, 
I  will  not  bear  it  longer." 

Then  yelp'd  the  cur,  and  yawl'd  the  cat ; 

Ran  Gaffer,  stumbled  Gammer, 
The  goose  flew  this  way  and  flew  that, 

And  flll'd  the  house  with  clamor. 

As  head  and  heels  upon  the  floor 

They  floundered  all  together, 
There  strode  a  stranger  to  the  door, 

And  it  was  windy  weather : 

He  took  the  goose  upon  his  arm, 

He  utter'd  words  of  scorning ; 
"So  keep  you  cold,  or  keep  you  warm, 

It  is  a  stormy  morning." 


THE  EPIC. 


43 


"  As  head  and  heels  upon  the  floor 

They  floundered  all  together, 
There  strode  a  stranger  to  the  door." 


The  wild  wind  rang  from  park  and  plain, 
And  roaud  the  attics  rumbled, 

Till  all  the  tables  danced  again, 
And  half  the  chimneys  tumbled. 

The  glass  blew  in,  the  fire  blew  out, 
The  blast  was  hard  and  harder. 


Her  cap  blew  off,  her  gown  blew  up, 
And  a  whirlwind  clear'd  the  larder; 

And  while  on  all  sides  breaking  loose 
Her  household  fled  the  danger, 

Quoth  she,  "The  Devil  take  the  goose, 
And  God  forget  the  stranger!" 


ENGLISH  IDYLS  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


(PUBLISHED  1842.) 


THE-EPIC. 


AT  Francis  Allen's  on  the  Christmas-eve, — 
The  game  of  forfeits  done— the  girls  all  kiss'd 
Beneath  the  sacred  bush  and  past  away— 
The  parson  Holmes,  the  poet  Everard  Hall, 
The  host,  and  I  sat  round  the  wassail-bowl, 
Then  half-way  ebb'd:  and  there  we  held  a  talk, 
How  all  the  old  honor  had  from  Christmas  gone, 
Or  gone,  or  dwindled  dbwn  to  some  odd  games 
In  some  odd  nooks  like  this ;  till  I,  tired  out 
With  cutting  eights  that  day  upon  the  pond, 
Where,  three  times  slipping  from  the  outer  edge, 
I  bump'd  the  ice  into  three  several  stars, 
Fell  in  a  doze;  and  half-awake  I  heard 
The  parson  taking  wide  and  wider  sweeps, 
Now  harping  on  the  church-commissioners, 
Now  hawking  at  Geology  and  schism  ; 
Until  I  woke,  and'  found  him  settled  down 
Upon  the  general  decay  of  faith 
Ricrht  thro'  the  world,  "at  home  was  little  left, 
And  none  abroad :  there  was  no  anchor,  none, 
To  hold  by."    Francis,  laughing,  clapt  his  hand 
On  Everard's  shoulder,  with  "  I  hold  by  him." 


"And  I,"  quoth  Everard,  "by  the  wassail-bowl." 

"  Why  yes,"  I  said,  "  we  knew  your  gift  that  way 

At  college:  but  another  which  you  had— 

I  mean  of  verse  (for  so  we  held  it  then,) 

What  came  of  that?"     "You  know,"  said  Frank, 

"he  burnt 

His  epic,  his  King  Arthur,  some  twelve  books  " — 
And  then  to  me  demanding  why?    "O,  sir, 
He  thought  that  nothing  new  was  said,  or  else 
Something  so  said  'twas  nothing— that  a  truth 
Looks  freshest  in  the  fashion  of  the  day: 
God  knows :  he  has  a  mint  of  reasons :  ask. 
It  pleased  me  well  enough."    "Nay,  nay,"  said  Hall, 
"Why  take  the  style  of  those  heroic  times? 
For  nature  brings  not  back  the  Mastodon, 
Nor  we  those  times ;    and  why  should  any  man 
Remodel  models  ?  these  twelve  books  of  mine 
Were  faint  Homeric  echoes,  nothing-worth, 
Mere  chaff  and  draff,  much  better  burnt"    "But  I." 
Said  Francis,  "  pick'd  the  eleventh  from  this  heanh, 
And  have  it :  keep  a  thing,  its  use  will  come. 
I  hoard  it  as  a  sugar-plum  for  Holmes." 
He  laugh'd,  and  I,  though  sleepy,  like  a  horse 
That  hears  the  corn-bin  open,  prick'd  my  ears ; 


44 


MORTE  D'ARTHUR. 


For  I  remember'd  Everard's  college  fame 
When  we  were  Freshmen :  then  at  my  request 
He  brought  it ;  and  the  poej,  little  urged, 
But  with  some  prelude  of  disparagement, 
Read,  mouthing  out  his  hollow  oes  and  aes, 
Deep-chested  music,  and  to  this  result. 


MORTE  D'ARTHUR. 

So  all  day  long  the  noise  of  battle  roll'd 

Among  the  mountains  by  the  winter  sea; 

Until  King  Arthur's  table,  man  by  man, 

Had  fall'n  in  Lyonness  about  their  Lord, 

King  Arthur :  then,  because  his  wound  was  deep, 

The  bold  Sir  Bedivere  uplifted  him. 

Sir  Bedivere,  the  last  of  all  his  knights, 

And  bore  him  to  a  chapel  nigh  the  field, 

A  broken  chancel  with  a  broken  cross, 

That  stood  on  a  dark  strait  of  barren  land. 

On  one  side  lay  the  Ocean,  and  on  one 

Lay  a  great  water,  and  the  moon  was  full. 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedivere: 
"  The  sequel  of  to-day  unsolders  all 
The  goodliest  fellowship  of  famous  knights 
Whereof  this  world  holds  record.    Such  a  sleep 
They  sleep— the  men  I  loved.    I  think  that  we 
Shall  never  more,  at  any  future  time, 


Delight  our  souls  with  talk  of  knightly  deeds, 
Walking  about  the  gardens  and  the  halls 
Of  Camelot,  as  in  the  days  that  were. 
I  perish  by  this  people  which  I  made, — 
Tho'  Merlin  sware  that  I  should  come  again 
To  rule  once  more — but  let  what  will  be,  be, 
I  am  so  deeply  smitten  thro'  the  helm 
That  without  help  I  cannot  last  till  morn. 
Thou  therefore  take  my  brand  Excalibur, 
Which  was  my  pride:  for  thou  rememberest  how 
In  those  old  days,  one  summer  noon,  an  arm 
Rose  up  from  out  the  bosom  of  the  lake, 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonderful, 
Holding  the  sword— and  how  I  rowed  across 
And  took  it,  and  have  worn  it,  like  a  king: 
And,  wheresoever  I  am  sung  or  told 
In  aftertime,  this  also  shall  be  known : 
But  now  delay  not:  take  Excalibur, 
And  fling  him  far  into  the  middle  mere: 
Watch  what  thou  seGst,  and  lightly  bring  me  word.' 

To  him  replied  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere: 
"It  is  not  meet,  Sir  King,  to  leave  thee  thus, 
Aidless,  alone,  and  smitten  thro'  the  helm. 
A  little  thing  may  harm  a  wounded  man. 
Yet  I  thy  best  will  all  perform  at  full, 
Watch  what  I  see,  and  lightly  bring  thee  word." 

So  saying,  from  the  ruined  shrine  he  stept 
And  in  the  moon  athwart  the  place  of  tombs, 
Where  lay  the  mighty  bones  of  ancient  men. 


ROM  up  from  out  the  bosom  of  the  lake, 
Clothed  in  white  umite." 


MORTE  D'ARTHUR. 


Old  knights,  and  over  them  the  sea-wind  sang 
Shrill,  chill,  with  flakes  of  foam.    He,  stepping  down 
By  zig-zag  paths,  and  juts  of  pointed  rock, 
Came  on  the  shining  levels  of  the  lake. 

There  drew  he  forth  the  brand  Excalibur, 
And  o'er  him,  drawing  it,  the  winter  moon, 
Brightening  the  skirts  of  a  long  cloud,  ran  forth 
And  sparkled  keen  with  frost  against  the  hilt : 
For  all  the  haft  twinkled  with  diamond  studs, 
Myriads  of  topaz-lights,  and  jacinth-work 
Of  subtlest  jewellery.    He  gazed  so  long 
That  both  his  eyes  were  dazzled,  as  he  stood, 
This  way  and  that  dividing  the  swift  mind, 
In  act  to  throw :  but  at  the  last  it  seein'd 
Better  to  leave  Excalibur  conceal'd 
There  in  the  many-knotted  waterflags, 
That  whistled  stiff  and  dry  about  the  marge. 
So  strode  he  back  slow  to  the  wounded  king. 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedivere : 
"Hast  thou  performed  my  mission  which  I  gave? 
What  is  it  thou  hast  seen  or  what  hast  heard?" 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere : 
"  I  heard  the  ripple  washing  in  'the  reeds, 
And  the  wild  water  lapping  on  the  crag." 

To  whom  replied  King  Arthur,  faint  and  pale : 
"  Thou  hast  betray'd  thy  nature  and  thy  name, 
Not  rendering  true  answer,  as  beseem'd 
Thy  fealty,  nor  like  a  noble  knight: 
For  surer  sign  had  follow'd,  either  hand, 
Or  voice,  or  else  a  motion  of  the  mere. 
This  is  a  shameful  thing  for  men  to  lie. 
Yet  now,  I  charge  thee,  quickly  go  again 
As  thou  art  lief  and  dear,  and  do'  the  thing 
I  bade  thee,  watch,  and  lightly  bring  me  word." 

Then  went  Sir  Bedivere  the  second  time 
Across  the  ridge,  and  paced  beside  the  mere, 
Counting  the  dewy  pebbles,  flx'd  !u  thought ; 
But  when  he  saw  the  wonder  of  the  hilt, 
How  curiously  and  strangely  chased,  he  smote 
His  palms  together,  and  he  cried  aloud. 

"And  if  indeed  1  cast  the  brand  away, 
Surely  a  precious  thing,  one  worthy  note, 
Should  thus  be  lost  forever  from  the  earth, 
Which  might  have  pleased  the  eyes  of  many  men. 
What  good  should  follow  this,  if  this  were  done  ? 
What  harm,  undone?  deep  harm  to  disobey, 
Seeing  obedience  is  the  bond  of  rule: 
Were  it  well  to  obey  then,  if  a  king  demand 
An  act  unprofitable,  against  himself? 
The  King  is  sick,  and  knows  not  what  he  does. 
What  record,  or  what  relic  of  my  lord 
Should  be  to  aftertime,  but  empty  breath 
And  rumors  of  a  doubt  ?  but  were  this  kept, 
Stored  in  some  treasure-house  of  mighty  kings, 
Some  one  might  show  it  at  a  joust  of  arms, 
Saying,  '  King  Arthur's  sword,  Excalibnr, 
Wrought  by  the  lonely  maiden  of  the  Lake. 
Nine  years  she  wrought  it,  sitting  in  the  deeps 
Upon  the  hidden  bases  of  the  hills.' 
So  might  some  old  man  speak  in  the  aftertime 
To  all  the  people,  winning  reverence. 
But  now  much  honor  and  much  fame  were  lost." 

So  spake  he,  clouded  with  his  own  conceit, 
And  hid  Excalibur  the  second  time, 
And  so  strode  back  slow  to  the  wounded  King. 

Then  spoke  King  Arthur,  breathing  heavily: 
"What  is  it  thon  hast  seen?  or  what  hast  heard?" 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere: 
"I  heard  the  water  lapping  on  the  crag, 
And  the  long  ripple  washing  in  the  reeds." 

To  whom  replied  King  Arthur,  much  in  wrath : 
"  Ah,  miserable  and  unkind,  untrue, 
Unknightly,  traitor-hearted  !    Woe  is  me  ! 
Authority  forgets  a  dying  king, 
Laid  widow'd  of  the  power  in  his  eye 
That  bow'd  the  will.    I  see  thee  what  thou  art, 
For  thon,  the  latest  left  of  all  my  knights, 
In  whom  should  meet  the  offices  of  all, 


Thou  wouldst  betray  me  for  the  precious  hilt ; 

Either  from  lust  of  gold,  or  like  a  girl 

Valuing  the  giddy  pleasure  of  the  eyes 

Yet,  for  a  man  may  fail  in  duty  twice, 

And  the  third  time  may  prosper,  get  thee  heuce : 

But,  if  thou  spare  to  fling  Excalibur, 

I  will  arise  and  slay  thee  with  my  hands." 

Then  quickly  rose  Sir  Bedivere,  and  ran, 
And,  leaping  down  the  ridges  lightly,  plunged 
Among  the  bulrush-beds,  and  clutch'd  the  sword, 
And  strongly  wheel'd  and  threw  it.    The  great  brand 
Made  lightnings  in  the  splendor  of  the  moon, 
And  flashing  round  and  round,  and  whirl'd  in  an 

arch, 

Shot  like  a  streamer  of  the  northern  morn, 
Seen  where  the  moving  isles  of  winter  shock 
By  night,  with  noises  of  the  northern  sea. 
So  flash' d  and  fell  the  brand  Excalibur: 
But  ere  he  dipt  the  surface,  rose  an  arm 
Cloth'd  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonderful, 
And  caught  him  by  the  hilt,  and  brandish'd  him 
Three  times,  and  drew  him'  under  in  the  mere. 
And  lightly  went  the  other  to  the  King. 

Then  spoke  King  Arthur,  drawing  thicker  breath : 

"  Now  see  I  by  thine  eyes  that  this  is  done. 
Speak  out :  what  is  it  thou  hast  heard,  or  seen  ?" 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere: 
"  Sir  King,  I  closed  mine  eyelids,  lest  the  gems 
Should  blind  my  purpose,  for  I  never  saw, 
Nor  shall  see,  here  or  elsewhere,  till  I  die, 
Not  tho'  I  live  three  lives  of  mortal  men, 
So  great  a  miracle  as  yonder  hilt. 
Then  with  both  hands  I  flung  him,  wheeling  him ; 
But  when  I  look'd  again,  behold  an  arm, 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonderful, 
That  caught  him  by  the  hilt,  and  brandish'd  him 
Three  times,  and  drew  him  under  in  the  mere." 

And  answer  made  King  Arthur,  breathing  hard : 
"My  end  draws  nigh;  'tis  time  that  I  were  gone, 
Make  broad  thy  shoulders  to  receive  my  weight, 
And  bear  me  to  the  margin ;  yet  I  fear 
My  wound  hath  taken  cold,  and  I  shall  die." 

So  saying,  from  the  pavement  he  half  rose, 
Slowly,  with  pain,  reclining  on  his  arm, 
And  looking  wistfully  with  wide  blue  eyes 
As  ia  a  picture.    Him  Sir  Bedivere 
Remorsefully  regarded  thro'  his  tears, 
And  would  have  spoken,  but  he  found  not  words, 
Then  took  with  care,  and  kneeling  on  one  knee, 
O'er  both  his  shoulders  drew  the  languid  hands, 
And  rising  bore  him  thro'  the  place  ol  tombs. 

But,  as  he  walk'd,  King  Arthur  panted  hard, 
Like  one  that  feels  a  nightmare  on  his  bed 
When  all  the  house  is  mute.    So  sigh'd  the  King, 
Muttering  and  murmuring  at  his  ear  "  Quick,  quick  ' 
I  fear  it  is  too  late,  and  I  shall  .die." 
But  the  other  swiftly  strode  from  ridge  to  ridge, 
Clothed  with  his  breath,  and  looking,  as  he  walk'd, 
Larger  than  human  on  the  frozen  hills. 
He  heard  the  deep  behind  him,  and  a  cry 
Before.    His  own  thought  drove  him  like  a  goad. 
Dry  clash'd  his  harness  in  the  icy  caves 
And  barren  chasms,  and  all  to  left  and  right 
The  bare  black  cliff  clang'd  round  him,  as  he  based 
His  feet  on  juts  of  slippery  crag  that  rang 
Sharp-smitten  with  the  dint  of  armed  heels — 
And  on  a  sudden,  lo !  the  level  lake, 
And  the  long  glories  of  the  winter  moon. 

Then 'saw  they  how  there  hove  a  dusky  barge, 
Dark  as  a  funeral  scarf  from  stem  to  stern, 
Beneath  them :  and  descending  they  were  ware 
That  all  the  decks  were  dense  with  stately  forms 
Black-stoled,  black-hooded,  like  a  dream— by  these 
Three  Queens  with  crowns  of  gold — and  from  thtjm 

rose 

A  cry  that  shiver'd  to  the  tingling  stars, 
And,  as  it  were  one  voice,  an  agony 
i  Of  lamentation,  like  a  wind,  that  shrills 


MORTE  D'ARTHUR. 


All  night  in  a  waste  land,  where  no  one  conies, 
Or  hath  come,  since  the  making  of  the  world. 

Then  murmur'd  Arthur,  "Place  me  in  the  barge," 
And  to  the  barge  they  came.     There   those  three 

Queens 

Put  forth  their  hands,  and  took  the  King,  and  wept. 
But  she  that  rose  the  tallest  of  them  all 
And  fairest,  laid  his  head  upon  her  lap. 
And  loosed  the  shatter'd  casque,  aud  chafed  his  hands, 
And  call'd  him  by  his  name,  complaining  loud, 
And  dropping  bitter  tears  against  his  brow 
Striped  with  dark  blood :  for  all  his  face  was  white 
Aud  colorless,  and  like  the  wither'd  moon 
Smote  by  the  fresh  beam  of  the  springing  east ; 


"Ah!  my  Lord  Arthur,  whither  shall  I  go? 
Where  shall  I  hide  my  forehead  and  my  eyes? 
For  now  I  see  the  true  old  times  are  dead, 
When  every  moruiug  brought  a  noble  chance, 
And  every  chance  brought  out  a  noble  knight. 
Such  times  have  been  not  since  the  light  hath  led 
The  holy  Elders  with  the  gift  of  myrrh. 
But  now  the  whole  BOUND  TABLE  is  dissolved 
Which  was  an  image  of  the  mighty  world ; 
And  I,  the  last,  go  forth  companionless, 
And  the  days  darken  round  me,  and  the  years, 
Among  new  men,  strange  faces,  other  minds." 

And  slowly  auswer'd  Arthur  from  the  barge; 
"The  old  order  changeth, yielding  place  to  new, 


"  Laid  his  head  upon  her  lap, 

And  loosed  the  shatter'd  casque,  and  chafed  his  hands 
And  called  him  by  his  name." 


And  all  his  greaves  and  cutsses  dash'd  with  drops 
Of  onset ;  and  the  light  and  lustrous  curls — 
That  made  his  forehead  like  a  rising  KIIII 
High  from  the  dais-throne — were  parch'd  with  dust; 
Or,  clotted  into  points  and  hanging  loose, 
Mix'd  with  the  knightly  growth  that,  fringed  his  lips. 
So  like  a  shatter'd  column  lay  the  King; 
Not  like  that  Arthur  who,  with  lance  in  rest, 
From  spur  to  plume  a  star  of  tournament, 
Shot  thro'  the  lists  at  Camelot,  and  charged 
Before  the  eyes  of  ladies  and  of  kings. 
Then  loudly  cried  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere, 


And  God  fulfils  himself  in  many  ways, 

Lest  one  good  custom  should  corrupt  the  world. 

Comfort  thyself:  what  comfort  is  in  me? 

I  have  lived  my  life,  and  that  which  I  have  done 

May  He  within  himself  make  pure !  but  thou, 

If  thon  shouldst  never  see  my  face  again, 

Pray  for  my  soul.    More  things  are  wrought  by  prayer 

Than  this  world  dreams  of.    Wherefore,  let  thy  voice 

Rise  like  a  fountain  for  me  night  and  day. 

For  what  are  men  better  than  sheep  or  goats 

That  nourish  a  blind  life  within  the  brain, 

If,  knowing  God,  they  lift  not  hands  of  prayer 


THE  GARDENER'S  DAUGHTER. 


47 


Both  for  themselves  and  those  who  call  them  friend? 
For  so  the  whole  round  earth  is  every  way 
Bound  by  gold  chains  about  the  feet  of  God. 
But  now  farewell.    I  am  going  a  long  way 
With  these  thou  seiist— if  indeed  I  go — 
(For  all  my  mind  is  clouded  with  a  doubt) 
To  the  island-valley  of  Avilion ; 
Where  falls  not  hail,  or  rain,  or  any  snow, 
Nor  ever  wind  blows  loudly ;  but  it  lies 
Deep-meadow'd,  happy,  fair  with  orchard  lawns 
And  bowery  hollows  crown'd  with  summer  sea, 
Where  I  will  heal  me  of  my  grievous  wound." 
So  said  he,  and  the  barge  with  oar  and  sail 
Moved  from  the  brink,  like  some  full-breasted  swan— 
That,  fluting  a  wild  carol  ere  her  death, 
Ruffles  her  pure  cold  plume,  and  takes  the  flood 
With  swarthy  webs.    Long  stood  Sir  Bedivere 
Revolving  many  memories,  till  the  hull 
Look'd  one  black  dot  against  the  verge  of  dawn, 
And  oil  the-  mere  the  wailing  died  away. 


Here  ended  Hall,  and  our  last  light,  that  long 
Had  wiuk'd  and  threateu'd  darkness,  flared  and  fell : 
At  which  the  Parson,  sent  to  sleep  with  sound, 
And  waked  with  silence,  grunted  "Good!"  but  we 
Sat  rapt:  it  was  the  tone  with  which  he  read — 
Perhaps  some  modern  touches  here  and  there 
Redeem'd  it  from  the  charge  of  nothingness — 
Or  else  we  loved  the  man,  and  prized  his  work; 
I  know  not :  but  we  sitting,  as  I  said, 
The  cock  crew  loud ;  as  at  that  time  of  year 
The  lusty  bird  takes  every  hour  for  dawn  : 
Then  Francis,  muttering,  like  a  man  ill-used, 
"  There  now — that's  nothing  !"  drew  a  little  back. 
And  drove  his  heel  into  the  smoulder'd  log, 
That  sent  a  blast  of  sparkles  up  the  flue : 
And  so  to  bed ;  where  yet  in  sleep  I  seem'd 
To  sail  with  Arthur  under  looming  shores, 
Point  after  point ;  till  on  to  dawn,  when  dreams 
Begin  to  feel  the  truth  and  stir  of  day, 
To  me,  raethought,  who  waited  with  a  crowd, 
There  came  a  bark  that,  blowing  forward,  bore 
King  Arthur,  like  a  modern  gentleman 
Of  stateliest  port;  and  all  the  people  cried, 
"  Arthur  is  come  again :  he  cannot  die." 
Then  those  that  stood  upon  the  hills  behind 
Repeated— "Come  again,  and  thrice  as  fair;" 
And,  further  inland,  voices  echoed — "  Come 
With  all  good  things,  and  war  shall  be  no  more." 
At  this  a  hundred  bells  began  to  peal, 
That  with  the  sound  I  woke,  and  heard  indeed 
The  clear  church-bells  ring  in  the  Christmas  mom. 


THE  GARDENER'S  DAUGHTER;  OR, 
THE   PICTURES. 

THIS  morning  is  the  morning  of  the  day, 
When  I  and  Eustace  from  the  city  went 
To  see  the  Gardener's  Daughter;  I  and  he, 
Brothers  in  Art ;  a  friendship  so  complete 
Portion'd  in  halves  between  us,  that  we  grew 
The  fable  of  the  city  where  we  dwelt. 

My  Eustace  might  have  sat  for  Hercules; 
So  muscular  he  spread,  so  broad  of  breast. 
He,  by  some  law  that  holds  in  love,  and  draws 
The  greater  to  the  lesser,  long  desired 
A  certain  miracle  of  symmetry, 
A  miniature  of  loveliness,  all  grace 
Summ'd  up  and  closed  in  little ; — Juliet,  she 
So  light  of  foot,  so  light  of  spirit— oh,  she 
To  me  myself,  for  some  three  careless  moons, 
The  summer  pilot  of  an  empty  heart 
Unto  the  shores  of  nothing !    Know  you  not 
Such  touches  are  but  embassies  of  love, 
To  tamper  with  the  feelings,  ere  he  found 


Empire  for  life?  but  Eustace  painted  her, 
And  said  to  me,  she  sitting  with  us  then, 
"When  will  you  paint  like  this?"  and  I  replied, 
(My  words  were  half  in  earnest,  half  in  jest,) 
"'Tis  not  your  work,  but  Love's.    Love,  uuperceived, 
A  more  ideal  Artist  he  than  all, 
Came,  drew  your  pencil  from  you,  made  those  eye/! 
Darker  than  darkest,  pansies,  and  that  hair 
More  black  than  ashbuds  in  the  front  of  March." 
And  JuliBt  answer'd  laughing,  "Go  and  see 
The  Gardener's  daughter :  trust  me,  after  that, 
You  scarce  can  fail  to  match  his  masterpiece.11 
And  up  we  rose,  and  on  the  spur  we  went. 

Not  wholly  in  the  busy  world,  nor  quite 
Beyond  it,  blooms  the  garden  that  I  love. 
News  from  the  humming  city  comes  to  it 
In  sound  of  funeral  or  of  marriage  bells ; 
And,  sitting  muflled  in  dark  leaves,  you  hear 
The  windy  clanging  of  the  minster  clock; 
Although  between  it  and  the  garden  lies 
A  league  of  grass,  wash'd  by  a  slow  broad  stream, 
That,  stirr'd  with  languid  pulses  of  the  oar, 
Waves  all  its  lazy  lilies,  and  creeps  on, 
Barge-laden,  to  three  arches  of  a  bridge 
Crowu'd  with  the  minster  towers. 

The  fields  between 

Are  dewy-fresh,  browsed  by  deep-udder'd  kine, 
And  all  about  the  large  lime  feathers  low, 
The  lime  a  summer  home  of  murmurous  wings. 

In  that  still  place  she,  hoarded  in  herself, 
Grew,  seldom  seen:  not  less  among  us  lives 
Her  fame  from  lip  to  lip.    Who  had  not  heard 
Of  Rose,  the  Gardener's  daughter  ?    Where  was  he, 
So  blunt  in  memory,  so  old  at  heart, 
At  such  a  distance  from  his  youth  in  grief, 
That,  having  seen,  forgot?    The  common  mouth 
So  gross  to  express  delight,  in  praise  of  her 
Grew  oratory.    Such  a  lord  is  Love, 
And  Beauty  such  a  mistress  Q!  the  world. 

And  if  I  said  that  Fancy,  led  by  Love, 
Would  play  with  flying  forms  and  images, 
Yet  this  is  aiso  true,  that,  long  before 
I  look'd  upon  her,  when  I  heard  her  name 
My  heart  was  like  a  prophet  to  my  heart 
And  told  me  I  should  love.    A  crowd  of  hopes, 
That  sought  to  sow  themselves  like  winged  seeds, 
Born  out  of  everything  I  heard  and  saw, 
Flutter'd  about  my  senses  and  my  soul ; 
And  vague  desires,  like  fitful  blasts  of  balm 
To  one  that  travels  quickly,  made  the  air 
Of  Life  delicious,  and  all  kinds  of  thought, 
That  verged  upon  them,  sweeter  than  the  dream 
Dream'd  by  a  happy  man,  when  the  dark  East, 
Unseen,  is  brightening  to  his  bridal  morn. 

And  sure  this  orbit  of  the  memory  folds 
Forever  in  itself  the  day  we  went 
To  see  her.    All  the  land  in  flowery  squares 
Beneath  a  broad  and  equal-blowing  wind, 
Smelt  of  the  coming  summer,  as  one  large  cloud 
Drew  downward;  but  all  else  of  Heaven  was  pure 
Up  to  the  Sun,  and  May  from  verge  to  verge, 
And  May  with  me  from  head  to  heel.     And  now, 
As  tho'  't  were  yesterday,  as  tho'  it  were 
The  hour  just  flown,  that  morn  with  all  its  sound, 
(For  those  old  Mays  had  thrice  the  life  of  these,) 
Rings  in  mine  ears.    The  steer  forgot  to  graze, 
And,  where  the  hedge-row  cuts  the  pathway,  stood 
Leaning  his  horns  into  the  neighbor  field, 
And  lowing  to  his  fellows.    From  the  woods 
Came  voices  of  the  well-contented  doves. 
The  lark  could  scarce  get  out  his  notes  for  joy, 
But  shook  his  song  together  as  he  near'd 
His  happy  home,  the  ground.    To  left  and  right, 
The  cuckoo  told  his  name  to  all  the  hills; 
The  mellow  ouzel  fluted  in  the  elm  ; 
The  redcap  whistled;  and  the  nightingale 
Sang  loud,  as  tho'  he  were  the  bird  of  day. 

And  Eustace  turn'd,  and  smiling  said  to  me.  ' 


THE  GARDENER'S  DAUGHTER. 


"  Hear  how  the  bushes  echo !  by  my  life, 

These  birds  have  joyful  thoughts.     Think  you  they 

sing 

Like  poets,  from  the  vanity  of  song  ? 
Or  have  they  any  sense  of  why  they  sing  ? 
And  would  they  praise  the  heavens  for  what  they 

have  ?" 

And  I  made  answer,  "Were  there  nothing  else 
For  which  to  praise  the  heavens  but  only  love, 
That  only  love  were  cause  enough  for  praise." 

Lightly  he  laugh'd,  as  one  that  read  my  thought, 
And  on  we  went;  but  ere  an  hour  had  pass'd, 
We  reach'd  a  meadow  slanting  to  the  North ; 
Down  which  a  well-worn  pathway  courted  us 
To  one  green  wicket  in  a  privet  hedge; 
This,  yielding,  gave  into  a  grassy  walk 
Thro'  crowded  lilac-ambush  trimly  pruned ; 
And  one  warm  gust,  full-fed  with  perfume,  blew 
Beyond  'us,  as  we  enter'd  in  the  cool. 
The  garden  stretches  southward.    In  the  midst 
A  cedar  spread  his  dark-green  layers  of  shade. 
The  garden-glasses  shone,  and  momently 
The  twinkling  laurel  scatter'd  silver  lights. 

"  Eustace,"  I  said,  "  this  wonder  keeps  the  house." 
He  nodded,  but  a  moment  afterwards 
He  cried,  "  Look  !  look  !"    Before  he  ceased  I  turu'tl, 
And,  ere  a  star  can  wink,  beheld  her  there. 

For  up  the  porch  there  grew  an  Eastern  rose, 
That,  flowering  high,  the  last  night's  gale  had  caught, 
And  blown  across  the  walk.    One  arm  aloft — 
Gown'd  in  pure  white,  that  fitted  to  the  shape — 
Holding  the  bush,  to  fix  it  back,  she  stood. 
A  single  stream  of  all  her  soft  brown  hair 
Pour'd  on  one  side :  the  shadow  of  the  flowers 
Stole  all  the  golden  gloss,  aud,  wavering 
Lovingly  lower,  trembled  on  her  waist — 
Ah,  happy  shade — and  still  went  wavering  down, 
But,  ere  it  touch'd  a  foot,  that  might  have  danced 
The  greensward  into  greener  circles,  dipt, 
And  mix'd  with  shadows  of  the  common  ground '. 
But  the  full  day  dwelt  on  her  brows,  and  suun'd 
Her  violei  eyes,  and  all  her  Hebe-bloom, 
Aud  doubled  his  own  warmth  against  her  lips, 
And  on  the  bounteous  wave  of  such  a  breast 
As  never  pencil  drew.    Half  light,  half  shade, 
She  stood,  a  sight  to  make  an  old  man  young. 

So  rapt,  we  uear'd  the  house ;  but  she,  a  Rose 
In  roses,  mingled  with  her  fragrant  toil, 
Nor  heard  us  come,  nor  from  her  tendance  turu'd 
Into  the  world  without;  .till  close  at  hand, 
And  almost  ere  I  knew  mine  own  intent, 
This  murmur  broke  the  stillness  of  that  air 
Which  brooded  round  about  her: 

"Ah,  one  rose, 

One  rose,  but  one,  by  those  fair  fingers  cull'd, 
Were  worth  a  hundred  kisses  press'd  on  lips 
Less  exquisite  than  thine." 

She  look'd:  but  all 

Suffused  with  blushes — neither  self-possess'd 
Nor  startled,  but  betwixt  this  mood  and  that, 
Divided  in  a  graceful  quiet — paused, 
And  dropt  the  branch  she  held,  and  turning,  wound 
Her  looser  hair  in  braid,  and  stirr'd  her  lips 
For  some  sweet  answer,  tho'  no  answer  came, 
Nor  yet  refused  the  rose,  but  granted  it, 
And  moved  away,  and  left  me,  statue-like, 
In  act  to  render  thanks. 

I,  that  whole  day, 

Saw  her  no  more,  altho'  I  linger'd  there 
Till  every  daisy  slept,  and  Love's  white  star 
Beam'd  thro'  the  thicken' d  cedar  in  the  dusk. 

So  home  we  went,  and  all  the  livelong  way 
With  solemn  gibe  did  Eustace  banter  me. 
"Now,"  said  he,  "will  you  climb  the  top  of  Art. 
Ton  cannot  fail  but  work  in  hues  to  dim 
The  Titianic  Flora.    Will  you  match 
My  Juliet  ?  you,  not  you,— the  Master,  Love, 
A  more  ideal  Artist  he  than  alL" 


So  home  I  went,  but  could  not  sleep  for  joy, 
Reading  her  perfect  features  in  the  gloom, 
Kissing  the  rose  she  gave  me  .o'er  and  o'er, 
And  shaping  faithful  record  of  the  glance 
That  graced  the  giving— such  a  noise  of  life 
Swarm'd  in  the  golden  present,  such  a  voice 
Call'd  to  me  from  the  years  to  come,  and  such 
A  length  of  bright  horizon  rimm'd  the  dark. 
And  all  that  night  I  heard  the  watchmen  peal 
The  sliding  season:  all  that  night  I  heard 
The  heavy  clocks  knolling  the  drowsy  hours. 
The  drowsy  hours,  dispensers  of  all  good, 
O'er  the  mute  city  stole  with  folded  wings, 
Distilling  odors  on  me  as  they  went 
To  greet  their  fairer  sisters  of  the  East 

Love  at  first  sight,  first-born,  and  heir  to  all, 
Made  this  night  thus.    Henceforward  squall  nor  storm 
Could  keep  me  from  that  Eden  where  she  dwelt. 
Light  pretexts  drew  me:  sometimes  a  Dutch  love 
For  tulips ;  then  for  roses,  moss  or  musk, 
To  grace  my  city-rooms:  or  fruits  and  cream 
Served  in  the. weeping  elm;  and  more  and  more 
A  word  could  bring  the  color  to  my  cheek ; 
A  thought  would  fill  my  eyes  with  happy  dew; 
Love  trebled  life  within  me,  and  with  each 
The  year  increased. 

The  daughters  of  the  year, 
One  after  one,  thro1  that  still  garden  pass'd: 
Each  garlanded  with  her  peculiar  flower 
Danced  into  light,  and  died  into  the  shade; 
And  each  in  passing  touch'd  with  some  new  grace 
Or  seem'd  to  touch  her,  so  that  day  by  day, 
Like  one  that  never  can  be  wholly  known, 
Her  beauty  grew;  till  Autumn  brought  an  hour 
For  Eustace,  when  I  heard  his  deep  "I  will," 
Breathed,  like  the  covenant  of  a  God,  to  hold 
From  thence  thro'  all  the  worlds;  but  I  rose  up 
Full  of  his  bliss,  and  following  her  dark  eyes 
Felt  earth  as  air  beneath  me,  till  I  reach'd 
The  wicket-gate,  and  found  her  standing  there. 

There  sat  we  down  upon  a  garden  mound, 
Two  mutually  enfolded ;  Love,  the  third, 
Between  us,  in  the  circle  of  his  arms 
Enwound  us  both ;  and  over  many  a  range 
Of  waning  lime  the  gray  cathedral  towers, 
Across  a  hazy  glimmer  of  the  west, 
Reveal'd  their  shining  windows:  from  them  clash'd 
The  bells;  we  listen'd;  with  the  time  we  play'd; 
We  spoke  of  other  things ;  we  coursed  about 
The  subject  most  at  heart,  more  near  and  near, 
Like  doves  about  a  dovecote,  wheeling  round 
The  central  wish,  until  we  settled  there. 

Then,  in  that  time  and  place,  I  spoke  to  her, 
Requiring,  tho'  I  knew  it  was  mine  own, 
Yet  for  the  pleasure  that  I  took  to  hear, 
Requiring  at  her  hand  the  greatest  gift, 
A  woman's  heart,  the  heart  of  her  I  loved ; 
And  in  that  time  and  place  she  answer'd  me, 
And  in  the  compass  of  three  little  words, 
More  musical  than  ever  came  in  one, 
The  silver  fragments  of  a  broken  voice, 
Made  me  most  happy,  faltering  "I  am  thine." 

Shall  I  cease  here?    Is  this  enough  to  say 
That  my  desire,  like  all  strongest  hopes, 
By  its  own  energy  fulfill'd  itself, 
Merged  in  completion  ?    Would  you  learn  at  full 
How  passion  rose  thro'  circumstantial  grades 
Beyond  all  grades  develop' d?  and  indeed 
I  had  not  stayed  so  long  to  tell  you  all, 
But  while  I  mused  came  Memory  with  sad  eyes, 
Holding  the  folded  annals  of  my  youth ; 
And  while  I  mused,  Love  with  knit  brows  went  by, 
And  with  a  flying  finger  swept  my  lips, 
And  spake,  "Be  wise:  not  easily  forgiven 
Are  those,  who,  setting  wide  the  doors  that  bar 
The  secret  bridal  chambers  of  the  heart,  • 
Let  in  the  day."    Here,  then,  my  words  have  end. 

Yet  might  I  tell  of  meetings,  of  farewells— 


DORA. 


Of  that  which  came  between,  more  sweet  than  each. 
In  whispers,  like  the  whispers  of  the  leaves 
That  tremble  round  a  nightingale — in  sighs 
Which  perfect  Joy,  perplex'd  for  utterance, 
Stole  from  her  sister  Sorrow.    Might  I  not  tell 
Of  difference,  reconcilement,  pledges  given, 
And  vows,  where  there  was  never  need  of  vows, 
And  kisses,  where  the  heart  on  one  wild  leap 
Hung  tranced  from  all  pulsation,  as  above 
The  heavens  between  their  fairy  fleeces  palfi 
Sow'd  all  their  mystic  gulfs  with  fleeting  stars; 
Or  while  the  balmy  glooming,  crescent-lit, 
Spread  the  light  haze  along  the  river-shores, 
And  in  the  hollows ;  or  as  once  we  met 
Uuheedful,  tho'  beneath  a  whispering  rain 
Night  slid  down  one  long  stream  of  sighing  wind, 
And  in  her  bosom  bore  the  baby,  Sleep. 

But  this  whole  hour  your  eyes  have  been  i?iteut 
On  that  veil'd  picture— veil'd,  for  what  it  holds 
May  not  be  dwelt  on  by  the  common  day. 
This  prelude  has  prepared  thee.    Raise  thy  soul ; 
Make  thine  heart  ready  with  thine  eyes ;  the  time 
Is  come  to  raise  the  veil. 

Behold  her  there, 

As  I  beheld  her  ere  she  knew  my  heart, 
My  first,  last  love ;  the  idol  of  my  youth, 
The  darling  of  my  manhood,  and,  alas  ! 
Now  the  most  blessed  memory  of  mine  age. 


DORA. 

WITH  farmer  Allan  at  the  farm  abode 
William  and  Dora.    William  was  his  son, 
And  she  his  niece.    He  often  look'd  at  them, 
And  often  thought  "  I'll  make  them  man  and  wife." 
Now  Dora  felt  her  uncle's  will  in  all, 
And  yearn'd  towards  William ;  but  the  youth,  because 
He  had  been  always  with  her  in  the  house, 
Thought  not  of  Dora, 

Then  there  came  a  day 

When  Allan  call'd  his  son,  and  said,  "My  son: 
I  married  late,  but  I  would  wish  to  see 
My  grandchild  on  my  knees  before  I  die: 
And  I  have  set  my  heart  upon  a  match. 
Now  therefore  look  to  Dora ;  she  is  well 
To  look  to;  thrifty  too  beyond  her  age. 
She  is  my  brother's  daughter :  he  and  I 
Had  once  hard  words,  and  parted,  and  he  died 
In  foreign  lauds;  but  for  his  sake  I  bred 
His  daughter  Dora ;  take  her  for  your  wife ; 
For  I  have  wish'd  this  marriage,  night  and  day, 
For  many  years."    But  William  answer'd  short  : 
"I  cannot  marry  Dora;  by  my  life, 
I  will  not  marry  Dora."    Then  the  old  man 
Was  wroth,  and  doubled  up  his  hands,  and  said : 
"  You  will  not,  boy  !  you  dare  to  answer  thus ! 
But  in  my  time  a  father's  word  was  law, 
And  so  it  shall  be  now  for  me.    Look  to  it: 
Consider,  William :  take  a  month  to  think, 
And  let  me  have  an  answer  to  my  wish  : 
Or,  by  the  Lord  that  made  me,  you  shall  pack, 
And  never  more  darken  my  doors  again." 
But  William  auswer'd  madly ;  bit  his  lips, 
And  broke  away.    The  more  he  look'd  at  her 
The  less  he  liked  her ;  and  his  ways  were  harsh ; 
Bat  Dora  bore  them  meekly.    Then  before 
The  month  was  out  he  left  his  father's  house, 
And  hired  himself  to  work  within  the  fields ; 
And  half  in  love,  half  spite,  he  woo'd  and  wed 
A  laborer  s  daughter,  Mary  Morrison. 

.  Then  when  the  bells  were  ringing,  Allan  call'd 
His  niece  and  said:  "My  girl,  I  love  you  well: 
But  if  you  speak  with  him  that  was  my  son, 
Or  change  a  word  with  her  he  calls  his  wife, 
My  home  is  none  of  yours.    My  will  is  law." 
4 


Aud  Dora  promised,  being  meek.    She  thought, 
"It  cannot  be:  my  uncle's  mind  will  change!" 
And  days  went  on,  and  there  was  born  a  boy 
To  William;  then  distresses  came  on  him; 
And  day  by  day  he  pass'd  his  father's  gate, 
Heart-broken,  and  his  father  help'd  him  not, 
But  Dora  stored  what  little  she  could  save, 
And  sent  it  them  by  stealth,  nor  did  they  know 
Who  sent  it ;  till  at  last  a  fever  seized 
On  William,  and  in  harvest  time  he  died. 

Then  Dora  went  to  Mary.    Mary  sat 
And  look'd  with  tears  upon  her  boy,  and  thought 
Hard  things  of  Dora.    Dora  came  and  said : 

I  have  obey'd  my  uncle  until  now, 
And  I  have  siun'd,  for  it  was  all  thro'  me 
This  evil  came  on  William  at  the -first. 
But,  Mary,  for  the  sake  of  him  that's  gone, 
And  for  your  sake,  the  woman  that  he  chose, 
And  for  this  orphan,  I  am  come  to  you : 
You  know  there  has  not  been  for  these  five  years 
So  full  a  harvest :  let  me  take  the  boy, 
And  I  will  set  him  in  my  uncle's  eye 
Among  the  wheat ;  that  when  his  heart  is  glad 
Of  the  full  harvest,  he  may  see  the  boy, 
And  bless  him  for  the  sake  of  him  that's  gone." 

And  Dora  took  the  child,  and  went  her  way 
Across  the  wheat,  and  sat  npon  a  mound 
That  was  unsown,  where  many  poppies  grew. 
Far  off  the  farmer  came  into  the  field 
And  spied  her  not ;  but  none  of  all  his  men 
Dare  tell  him  Dora  waited  with  the  child ; 
And  Dora  would  have  risen  and  gone  to  him, 
But  her  heart  fail'd  her ;  and  the  reapers  reap'd, 
And  the  sun  fell,  and  all  the  land  was  dark. 

But  when  the  morrow  came,  she  rose  and  took 
The  child  once  more,  and  sat  upon  the  mound; 
And  made  a  little  wreath  of  all  the  flowers 
That  grew  about,  and  tied  it  round  his  hat 
To  make  him  pleasing  in  her  uncle's  eye. 
Then  when  the  farmer  pass'd  into  the  field 
He  spied  her,  and  he  left  his  men  at  work, 
And  came  and  said:  "Where  were  you  yesterday'.' 
Whose  child  is  that?    What  are  yon  doing  here?'' 
So  Dora  cast  her  eyes  upon  the  ground, 
And  answer'd  softly,  "This  is  William's  child!" 
"And  did  I  not,"  said  Allan,  "did  I  not 
Forbid  you,  Dora  ?"    Dora  said  again, 
"  Do  with  me  as  yon  will,  but  take  the  child 
And  bless  him  for  the  sake  of  him  that's  gone !" 
And  Allan  said,  "I  see  it  is  a  trick 
Got  up  betwixt  you  and  the  woman  there. 
I  must  be  taught  my  duty,  and  by  you ! 
You  knew  my  word  was  law,  and  yet  you  dared 
To  slight  it.    Well— for  I  will  take  the  boy: 
But  go  you  hence,  and  never  see  me  more." 

So  saying,  he  took  the  boy,  that  cried  aloud 
And  struggled  hard.    The  wreath  of  flowers  fell 
At  Dora's  feet    She  bow'd  upon  her  hands, 
And  the  boy's  cry  came  to  her  from  the  field, 
More  and  more  distant.    She  bow'd  down  her  head. 
Remembering  the  day  when  first  she  came, 
And  all  the  things  that  had  been.    She  bow'd  down 
And  wept  in  secret ;  and  the  reapers  reap'd, 
And  the  sun  fell,  and  all  the  land  was  dark. 

Then  Dora  went  to  Mary's  house,  and  stood 
Upon  the  threshold.    Mary  saw  the  boy 
Was  not  with  Dora.    She  broke  out  in  praise 
To  God,  that  help'd  her  in  her  widowhood. 
And  Dora  said,  "  My  uncle  took  the  boy ; 
But,  Mary,  let  me  live  and  work  with  yon: 
He  says  that  he  will  never  see  me  more." 
Then  answer'd  Mary,  "This  shall  never  be^ 
That  thou  shonldst  take  my  trouble  on  thyself: 
And  now  I  think,  he  shall  not  have  the  boy, 
For  he  will  teach  him  hardness,  and  to  slight 
His  mother ;  therefore  thon  and  I  will  go 
And  I  will  have  my  boy,  and  bring  him  hon»t ; 
And  I  will  beg  of  him  to  take  thee  back ; 


AUDLEY  COURT.— WALKING  TO  THE  MAIL. 


But  if  he  will  not  take  thee  back  again, 
Then  thou  and  I  will  live  within  one  house, 
And  work  for  William's  child,  until  he  grows 
Of  age  to  help  us." 

So  the  women  kiss'd 

Each  other,  and  set  out,  and  reach'd  the  farm, 
The  door  was  off  the  latch :  they  peep'd,  and  saw 
The  boy  set  up  betwixt  his  grandsire's  knees, 
Who  thrust  him  in  the  hollows  of  his  arm, 
And  clapt  him  on  the  hands  and  on  the  cheeks, 
Like  one  that  loved  him;   and  the  lad  stretch'd  out 
Aud  babbled  for  the  golden  seal,  that  hung 
Prom  Allan's  watch,  and  sparkled  by  -the  fire. 
Then  they  came  in:  but  when  the  boy  beheld 
His  mother,  he  cried  o_ut  to  come  to  her  : 
And  Allan  set  him  down,  and  Mary  said: 
"  O  Father — if  you  let  me  call  you  so — 
I  never  came  a-begging  for  myself, 
Or  William,  or  this  child ;  but  now  I  come 
For  Dora:  take  her  back;  she  loves  you  well. 

0  Sir,  when  William  died,  he  died  at  peace 
With  all  men ;  for  I  ask'd  him,  and  he  said, 
He  could  not  ever  rue  his  marrying  me — 

1  had  been  a  patient  wife:  but,  Sir,  he  said 
That  he  was  wrong  to  cross  his  father  thus: 
'God  bless  him  1'  he  said,  'and  may  he  never  know 
The  troubles  I  have  gone  thro' !'    Then  he  turn'd 
His  face  and  pass'd— unhappy  that  I  am  1 

But  now,  Sir,  let  me  have  my  boy,  for  you 
Will  make  him  hard,  and  he  will  learn  to  slight 
His  father's  memory;   and  take  Dora  back, 
And  let  all  this  be  as  it  was  before." 

So  Mary  said,  and  Dora  hid  her  face 
By  Mary.    There  was  silence  in  the  room; 
And  all  at  once  the  old  man  burst  in  sobs : 

"I  have  been  to  blame— to  blame.     I  have  kill'd 

my  son. 

I  have  kill'd  him— but  I  loved  him — my  dear  son. 
May  God  forgive  me ! — I  have  been  to  blame. 
Kiss  me,  my  children." 

Then  they  clung  about 

The  old  man's  neck,  and  kiss'd  him  many  times. 
And  all  the  man  was  broken  with  remorse; 
And  all  his  love  came  back  a  hundred  fold ; 
And  for  three  hours  he  sobb'd  o'er  William's  child, 
Thinking  of  William. 

So  those  four  abode 

Within  one  house  together;  and  as  years 
Went  forward,  Mary  took  another  mate ; 
But  Dora  lived  unmarried  till  her  death. 


AUDLEY  COURT. 

"  THE  Bull,  the  Fleece  are  cramm'd,  and  not  a  room 
For  love  or  money.    Let  us  picnic  there 
At  Audley  Court." 

I  spoke,  while  Audley  feast 
Hnmm'd  like  a  hive  all  round  the  narrow  quay, 
To  Francis,  with  a  basket  on  his  arm, 
To  Francis  just  alighted  from  the  boat, 
And  breathing  of  the  sea.     "  With  all  my  heart," 
Said  Francis.    Then  we  shoulder'd  thro'  the  swarm, 
Aud  rounded  by  the  stillness  of  the  beach 
To  where  the  bay  runs  up  its  latest  horn. 

We  left  the  dying  ebb  that  faintly  lipp'd 
The  flat  red  granite ;  so  by  many  a  sweep 
Of  meadow  smooth  from  aftermath  we  reach'd 
The  griffin-guarded  gates,  and  pass'd  thro"  all 
The  pillar'd  dusk  of  sounding  sycamores, 
And  cross'd  the  garden  to  the  gardener's  lodge, 
With  all  its  casements  bedded,  and  its  walls 
And  chimneys  muffled  in  the  leafy  vine. 

There  on  a  slope  of  orchard,  Francis  laid 
A  damask  napkin  wrought  with  horse  and  honncl, 
Brought  out  a  dusky  loaf  that  smelt  of  home, 
And,  half-cut-down,  a  pasty  costly  made, 


Where  quail  and  pigeon,  lark  and  leveret  lay, 
Like  fossils  of  the  rock,  with  golden  yolks 
Imbedded  and  injellied ;  last,  with  these, 
A  flask  of  cider  from  his  father's  vats, 
Prime,  which  I  knew;  and  so  we  sat  and  eat 
And  talk'd  old  matters  over :  who  was  dead, 
Who  married,  who  was  like  to  be,  and  how 
The  races  went,  and  who  would  rent  the  hall: 
Then  touch'd  upon  the  game,  how  scarce  it  was 
This  season ;  glancing  thence,  discnss'd  the  farm, 
The  fourfleld  system,  and  the  price  of  grain  ; 
And  struck  upon  the  corn-laws,  where  we  split, 
And  came  again  together  on  the  king 
With  heated  faces ;  till  he  laugh'd  aloud ; 
And,  while  the  blackbird  on  the  pippin  hung 
To  hear  him,  clapt  his  hand  in  mine  and  sang: 

"  O,  who  would  right    and  march  and   counter- 
march, 

Be  shot  for  sixpence  in  a  battle-field, 
And  shovell'd  up  into  a  bloody  trench 
Where  no  one  knows?  but  let  me  live  my  life. 

"O,  who  would  cast  and  balance  at  a  desk, 
Perch'd  Jike  a  crow  upon  a  three-legg'd  stool, 
Till  all  his  juice  is  dried,  and  all  his  joints 
Are  full  of  chalk?  but  let  me  live  my  life. 

"  Who'd  serve  the  state  ?  for  if  I  carved  my  name 
Upon  the  cliffs  that  guard  my  native  land, 
I  might  as  well  have  traced  it  in  the  sands ; 
The  sea  wastes  all :  but  let  me  live  my  life. 

"Ofwho  would  love?    I  woo'd  a  woman  once, 
But  she  was  sharper  than  an  eastern  wind, 
And  all  my  heart  turn'd  from  her,  as  a  thorn 
Turns  from  the  sea :  but  let  me  live  my  life." 

He  sang  his  song,  and  I  replied  with  mine: 
I  found  it  in  a  volume,  all  of  songs, 
Knock'd  down  to  me,  when  old   Sir  Robert's  pride, 
His  books — the  more  \f".  pity,  so  I  said — 
Came  to  the  hammer  here  in  March— and  this — 
I  set  the  words,  and  added  names  I  knew. 

"  Sleep,  Ellen  Aubrey,  sleep,  and  dream  of  me  : 
Sleep,  Ellen,  folded  in  thy  sister's  arm, 
And  sleeping,  haply  dream  her  arm  is  mine. 

"  Sleep,  Ellen,  folded  in  Emilia's  arm ; 
Emilia,  fairer  than  all  else  but  thou, 
For  thou  art  fairer  than  all  else  that  is. 

"  Sleep,  breathing   health   and   peace   upon   her 

breast, 

Sleep,  breathing  love  and  trust  against  her  lip : 
I  go  to-night:  I  come  to-morrow  morn. 

"  I  go,  but  I  return :  I  would  I  were 
The  pilot  of  the  darkness  and  the  dream. 
Sleep,  Ellen  Aubrey,  love,  and  dream  of  me." 

So  sang  we  each  to  either,  Francis  Hale, 
The  farmer's  son  who  lived  across  the  bay, 
My  friend ;  and  I,  that  having  wherewithal, 
And  in  the  fallow  leisure  of  my  life, 
Did  what  I  would :  but  ere  tne  night  we  rose 
And  saunter'd  home  beneath  a  moon,  that,  just 
In  crescent,  dimly  rain'd  about  the  leaf 
Twilights  of  airy  silver,  till  we  reach'd 
The  limit  of  the  hills ;  and  as  we  sank 
From  rock  to  rock  upon  the  glooming  quay, 
The  town  was  hush'd  beneath  us :  lower  down 
The  bay  was  oily-calm ;  the  harbor-buoy 
With  one  green  sparkle  ever  and  anon 
Dipt  by  itself,  and  we  were  glad  at  heart. 


WALKING  TO  THE  MAIL. 

John.     I  'M  glad  I  walk'd.     How  fresh  the  mead 

ows  look 

Above  the  river,  and,  but  a  month  ago, 
The  whole  hillside  was  redder  than  a  fox. 
Is  yon  plantation  where  this  byway  joins 
The  turnpike? 

James.  Yes. 


EDWIN  MORRIS. 


John,  And  when  does  this  come  by  f 

James.    The  mail?    At  one  o'clock. 

John.  What  is  it  now? 

James.    A  quarter  to. 

John.  Whose  house  is  that  I  see  ? 

No,  not  the  County  Member's  with  the  vane : 
Up  higher  with  the  yewtree  by  it,  and  half 
A  score  of  gables. 

James.  That?     Sir  Edward  Head's: 

But  he 's  abroad :  the  place  is  to  be  sold. 

John.    O,  his.    He  was  not  broken. 

James.  No,  sir,  he, 

Vex'd  with  a- morbid  devil  in  his  blood 
That  veil'd  the  world  with  jaundice,  hid  his  face 
From  all  men,  and  commercing  with  himself, 
He  lost  the  sense  that  handles  daily  life — 
That  keeps  us  all  in  order  more  or  less — 
And  sick  of  home  went  overseas  for  change. 

John.    And  whither  ? 

James.    Nay,  who  knows?  he's  here  and  there. 
But  let  him  go ;  his  devil  goes  with  him, 
As  well  as  with  his  tenant,  Jocky  Dawes. 

John.    What's  that? 

James.    You  saw  the  man — on  Monday,  was  it  ? — 
There  by  the  humpback'd  willow ;  half  stands  up 
And  bristles ;  half  has  fall'n  and  made  a  bridge ; 
And  there  he  caught  the  younker  tickling  trout — 
Caught  in  flagrante — what's  the  Latin  word? — 
Delicto:  but  his  house,  for  so  they  say, 
Was  haunted  with  a  jolly  ghost,  that  shook  , 
The  curtains,  whined  in  lobbies,  tapt  at  doors, 
And  rummaged  like  a  rat :  no  servants  stay'd : 
The  farmer  vext  packs  up  his  beds  and  ctiairs, 
And  all  his  household  stuff:  and  with  this  boy 
Betv.'ixt  his  knees,  his  wife  upon  the  tilt, 
Sets  out,  and  meets  a  friend  who  hails  him,  "What ! 
You  're    flitting !"    "  Yes,  we  're   flitting,"  says    the 

ghost, 

(For  they  had  pack'd  the  thing  among  the  beds,) 
"O  well,"  says  he,  "you  flitting  with  us  too — 
Jack,  turn  the  horses'  heads  and  home  again." 

John.    He  left  hi*  wife  behind ;  for  so  I  heard. 

James.    He  left  her,  yes.    I  met  my  lady  once : 
A  woman  like  a  butt,  and  harsh  as  crabs. 

John.    O  yet  but  I  remember,  ten  years  back — 
T  is  now  at  least  ten  years — and  then  she  was — 
Von  could  not  light  upon  a  sweeter  thing: 
A  body  slight  and  round,  and  like  a  pear 
In  growing,  modest  eyes,  a  hand,  a  foot 
Lessening  in  perfect  cadeace,  and  a  skin 
As  clean  and  white  as  privet  when  it  flowers. 

James.    Ay,  ay,  the  blossom  fades,  and  they  that 

loved 

At  first  like  dove  and  dove  were  cat  and  dog. 
She  was  the  daughter  of  a  cottager, 
Out  of  her  sphere.    What  betwixt  shame  and  pride, 
New  things  and  old,  himself  and  her,  she  sonr'd 
To  what  she  is:  a  nature  never  kind! 
Like  men,  like  manners:  like  breeds  like,  they  say. 
Kind  nature  is  the  best:  those  manners  next 
That  fit  us  like  a  nature  second-hand ; 
Which  are  indeed  the  manners  of  the  great. 

John.    But  I  had  heard  it  was  this  bill  that  past. 
And  fear  of  change  at  home,  that  drove  him  hence. 

James.    That  was  the  last  drop  in  his  cup  of  gall. 
I  once  was  near  him,  when  his  bailiff  brought 
A  Chartist  pike.    You  should  have  seen  him  wince 
As  from  a  venomous  thing;  he  thought  himself 
A  mark  for  all,  and  shudder'd,  lest  a  cry 
Should  break  his  sleep  by  night,  and  his  nice  eyes 
Should  see  the  raw  mechanic's  bloody  thumbs 
Sweat  on  his  blazon'd  chairs ;  but,  sir,  you  know 
That  these  two  parties  still  divide  the  world— 
Of  those  that  want,  and  those  that  have:  and  still 
The  same  old  sore  breaks  out  from  age  to  age 
With  mmch  the  same  result.    Now  I  myself, 
A  Tory  to  the  quick,  was  as  a  boy 
Destructive,  when  I  had  not  what  I  would. 


I  was  at  school— a  college  in  the  South: 
There  lived  a  flayflint  near:  we  stole  his  fruit, 
His  hens,  his  eggs ;  but  there  was  law  for  us; 
We  paid  in  person.    He  had  a  sow,  sir.    She, 
With  meditative  grunts  of  much  content, 
Lay  great  with  pig,  wallowing  in  sun  and  mud. 
By  night  we  dragg'd  her  to  the  college  tower 
From  her  warm  bed,  and  up  the  corkscrew  stair 
With  hand  and  rope  we  haled  the  groaning  sow, 
And  on  the  leads  we  kept  her  till  she  pigg'd. 
Large  range  of  prospect  had  the  mother  sow, 
And  but  for  daily  loss  of  one  she  loved, 
As  one  by  one  we  took  them — but  for  this — 
As  never  sow  was  higher  in  this  world — 
Might  have  been  happy :  but  what  lot  is  pure  ? 
We  took  them  all,  till  she  was  left  alone 
Upon  her  tower,  the  Niobe  of  swine, 
And  so  retnrn'd  nnfarrow'd  to  her  sty. 

John,    They  found  you  out? 

James.  Not  they. 

John.  Well— after  all  - 

What  know  we  of  the  secret  of  a  man  ? 
His   nerves  were  wrong.     What   ails   us,  who  are 

sound, 

That  we  should  mimic  this  raw  fool  the  world, 
Which  charts  us  all  in  its  coarse  blacks  or  whites, 
As  ruthless  as  a  baby  with  a  worm, 
As  cruel  as  a  schoolboy  ere  he  grows 
To  Pity— more  from  ignorance  than  will. 

But  put  your  best  foot  forward,  or  I  fear 
That  we  shall  miss  the  mail :  and  here  it  comes 
With  five  at  top :  as  quaint  a  four-in-hand 
As  you  shall  see— three  piebalds  and  a  roan. 


EDWIN  MORRIS ;  OR,  THE  LAKE. 

O  ME,  my  pleasant  rambles  by  the  lake. 
My  sweet,  wild,  fresh  three  quarters  of  a  year, 
My  one  Oasis  in  the  dust  and  drouth 
Of  city  life ;  I  was  a  sketcher  then : 
See  here,  my  doing :  curves  of  mountain,  bridge, 
Boat,  island,  ruins  of  a  castle,  built 
When  men  knew  how  to  build,  upon  a  rock, 
With  turrets  lichen-gilded  like  a  rock : 
And  here,  new-comers  in  an  ancient  hold,'. 
New-comers  from  the  Mersey,  millionnaires, 
Here  lived  the  Hills — a  Tudor-chimneyed  bulk 
Of  mellow  brickwork  on  an  isle  of  bowers. 

O  me,  my  pleasant  rambles  by  the  lake 
With  Edwin  Morris  and  with  Edward  Bull 
The  curate;  he  was  fatter  than  his  cure. 

But  Edwin  Morris,  he  that  knew  the  names, 
Long  learned  names  of  agaric,  moss,  and  fern, 
Who  forged  a  thousand  theories  of  the  rocks, 
Who  taught  me  how  to  skate,  to  row,  to  swim, 
Who  read  me  rhymes  elaborately  good, 
His  own — I  call'd  him  Crichton,  for  he  seem'd 
All-perfect,  fluish'd  to  the  finger  nail. 

And  once  I  ask'd  him  of  his  early  life, 
And  his  first  passion ;  and  he  answer'd  me ; 
And  well  his  words  became  him :  was  he  not 
A  full-cell'd  honeycomb  of  eloquence 
Stored  from  all  flowers?    Poet-like  he  spoke. 

"My  love  for  Nature  is  as  old  as  I; 
But  thirty  moons,  one  honeymoon  to  that, 
And  three  rich  sennights  more,  my  love  for  her. 
My  love  for  Nature  and  my  love  for  her, 
Of  different  ages,  like  twin-sisters  grew, 
Twin-sisters  differently  beautiful. 
To  some  full  music  rose  and  sank  the  sun, 
And  some  full  music  seem'd  to  move  and  change 


52 


ST.  SIMEON  STYLITES. 


With  (ill  the  varied  changes  of  the  dark, 
And  either  twilight  and  the  day  between; 
For  daily  hope  fultill'd,  to  rise  again 
Kevolving  toward  fulfilment,  made  it  sweet 
To  walk,  to  sit,  to  sleep,  to  breathe,  to  wake." 

Or  this  or  something  like  to  this  he  spoke. 
Then  said  the  fat-faced  curate,  Edward  Bull : 

"I  take  it,  God  made  the  woman  for  the  mail, 
And  for  the  good  and  increase  of  the  world. 
A  pretty  face  is  well,  and  this  is  well, 
To  have  a  dame  indoors,  that  trims  us  up, 
And  keeps  us  tight;  but  these  unreal  ways 
Seem  but  the  theme  of  writers,  and  indeed 
Worn  threadbare.    Man  is  made  of  solid  stuff. 
I  say,  God  made  the  woman  for  the  man, 
And  for  the  good  and  increase  of  the  world." 

" Parson," said  I,  "you  pitch  the  pipe  too  low: 
But  I  have  snd'den  touches,  and  can  run 
My  faith  beyond  my  practice  into  his: 
Tho'  if,  in  dancing  after  Letty  Hill, 
I  do  not  hear  the  bells  upon  my  cap, 
I  scarce  hear  other  music:  yet  say  on. 
What  should  one  give  to  light  on  such  a  dream?'' 
I  ask'd  him  half-sardouically. 

"Give? 

Give  all  thou  art,"  he  answer'd,  and  a  light 
Of  laughter  dimpled  in  his  swarthy  cheek  ; 
"I  would  have  hid  her  needle  in  my  heart, 
To  save  her  little  finger  from  a  scratch 
No  deeper  than  the  skin:  my  ears  could  hear 
Her  lightest  breaths:  her  least  remark  was  worth 
The  experience  of  the  wise.    I  went  and  came ; 
Her  voice  fled  always  thro'  the  summer  land ; 
I  spoke  her  name  alone.    Thrice-happy  days ! 
The  flower  of  each,  those  moments  when  we  met, 
The  crown  of  all,  we  met  to  part  no  more." 

Were  not  his  words  delicious,  I  a  beast 
To  take  them  as  I  did  ?  but  something  jarr'd ; 
Whether  he  spoke  too  largely;  that  there  seem'd 
A  touch  of  something  false,  some  self-conceit, 
Or  over-smoothness:  howso'er  it  was, 
He  scarcely  hit  my  humor,  and  I  said: 

"Friend  Edwin,  do  not  think  yourself  alone 
Of  all  men  happy.    Shall  not  Love  to  me, 
As  in  the  Latin  song  I  learnt  at  school, 
Sneeze  out  a  full  God-bless-you  right  and  left? 
But  you  can  talk:  yours  is  a  kindly  vein: 
I  have,  I  think, — Heaven  knows — as  much  within: 
Have,  or  should  have,  but  for  a  thought  or  two, 
That  like  a  purple  beech  among  the  greens 
Looks  out  of  place :  *t  is  from  no  want  in  her : 
It  is  my  shyness,  or  my  self-distrust, 
Or  something  of  a  wayward  modern  mind 
Dissecting  passion.    Time  will  set  me  right." 

So  spoke  I  knowing  not  the  things  that  were. 
Then  said  the  fat-faced  curate,  Edward  Bull : 
"  God  made  the  woman  for  the  use  of  man, 
And  for  the  g6od  and  increase  of  the  world." 
And  I  and  Edwin  laugh'd ;  and  now  we  paused 
About  the  windings  of  the  marge  to-  hear 
The  soft  wind  blowing  over  meadowy  holms 
And  alders,  garden-isles ;  and  now  we  left 
The  clerk  behind  us,  I  and  he,  and  ran 
By  ripply  shallows  of  the  lisping  lake, 
Delighted  with  the  freshness  and  the  sound. 

But,  when  the  bracken  rusted  on  their  crags, 
My  suit  had  wither'd,  nipt  to  death  by  him 
That  was  a  God,  and  is  a  lawyer's  clerk, 
The  rentroll  Cupid  of  our  rainy  isles. 
Tis  true,  we  met ;  one  hour  I  had,  no  more : 
She  sent  a  note,  the  seal  an  Elle  vous  suit, 


The  close  ''Your  Letty,  only  yours;"  and  this 
Thrice  underscored.    The  friendly  mist  of  moru 
Clung  to  the  lake.    I  boated  over,  ran 
My  craft  aground,  and  heard  with  beating  heart 
The  Sweet-Gale  rustle  round  the  shelving  keel: 
And  out  I  slept,  aud  up  I  crept ;  she  moved, 
Like  Proserpine  in  Enua,  gathering  flowers  : 
Then  low  and  sweet  I  whistled  thrice;  and  she, 
She    tnrn'd,  we   closed,  we   kiss'd,  swore    faith,   I 

breathed 

In  some  new  planet:  a  silent  cousin  stole 
Upon  us  and  departed:  "Leave,"  she  cried, 

"O  leave  me!"    "Never,  dearest,  never:  here 
I  brave  the  worst:"  and  while  we  stood  like  fools 
Embracing,  all  at  once  a  score  of  pugs 
And  poodles  yell'd  within,  and  out  they  came 
Trustees  aud  Aunts  and  Uncles.     "  What,  with  him  1" 
"Go"  (shrill'd  the  cottonspinning  chorus)  "him1." 
I  choked.    Again  they  shriek'd  the  burthen  "  Him  !'• 
Again  with  hands  of  wild  rejection  "Go! — 
Girl,  get  you  in  !"    She  went— and  in  one  month 
They  wedded  her  to  sixty  thousand  pounds, 
To  lands  in  Kent  and  messuages  in  York, 
And  slight  Sir  Robert  with  his  watery  smile 
And  educated  whisker.    But  for  me, 
They  set  an  ancient  creditor  to  work: 
It  seems  I  broke  a  close  with  force  and  arms: 
There  came  a  mystic  token  from  the  king 
To  greet  the  sheriff,  needless  courtesy ! 
I  read^  and  fled  by  night,  and  flying  tnrn'd : 
Her  taper  glimmer'd  in  the  lake  below: 
I  tnrn'd  once  more,  close  button'd  to  the  storm  $ 
So  left  the  place,  left  Edwin,  nor  have  seen 
Him  since,  nor  heard  of  her,  nor  cared  to  hear. 

Nor  cared  to  hear?  perhaps:  yet  long  ago 
I  have  pardon'd  little  Letty:  not  indeed, 
It  may  be,  for  her  own  dear  sake  but  this, 
She  seems  a  part  of  those  fresh  days  to  me ; 
For  in  the  dust  and  drouth  of  London  life 
She  moves  among  my  visions  of  the  lake, 
While  the  prime  swallow  dips  his  wing,  or  then 
While  the  gold-lily  blows,  and  overhead 
The  light  cloud  smoulders  on  the  summer  crag. 


ST.  SIMEON  STYLITES. 

AT.THO'  I  be  the  basest  of  mankind, 
Prom  scalp  to  sole  one  sjpugh  and  crust  of  sin, 
Unfit  for  earth,  unfit  for  heaven,  scarce  meet 
For  troops  of  devils,  mad  with  blasphemy, 
I  will  not  cease  to  grasp  the  hope  I  hold 
Of  saintdom,  and  to  clamor,  mourn,  and  sob, 
Battering  the  gates  of  heaven  with  storms  of  prayer, 
Have  mercy,  Lord,  and  take  away  my  sin. 

Let  this  avail,  just,  dreadful,  mighty  God, 
This  not  be  all  in  vain,  that  thrice  ten  years, 
Thrice  multiplied  by  superhuman  pangs, 
In  hungers  and  in  thirsts,  fevers  and  cold, 
In    coughs,  aches,   stitches,    ulcerous    throes    and 

cramps, 

A  sign  betwixt  the  meadow  aud  the  cloud, 
Patient  on  this  tall  pillar  I  have  borne 
Rain,  wind,  frost,  heat,  hail,  damp,  and  sleet,  and 

snow ; 

And  I  had  hoped  that  ere  this  period  closed 
Thou  wouldst  have  caught  me  up  into  thy  rest, 
Denying  not  these  weather-beaten  limbs 
The  meed  of  saints,  the  white  robe  and  the  palm. 

O  take  the  meaning,  Lord :  I  do  not  breathe, 
Not  whisper  any  murmur  of  complaint, 
Pain  heap'd  ten-hundred-fold  to  this,  were  still 
Less  burthen,  by  ten-hundred-fold,  to  bear, 
Than  were  those  lead-like  tons  of  sin,  that  crush'd 
My  spirit  flat  before  thee.  . 

O  Lord,  Lord, 
Thou  knowest  I  bore  this  better  at  the  first, 


ST.  SIMEON  STYLITES. 


53 


For  I  was  strong  and  hale  of  body  then ; 
And  tho'  my  teeth,  which  now  are  dropt  away, 
Would  chatter  with  the  cold,  and  all  my  beard 
Was  tagg'd  with  icy  fringes  in  the  moon, 
I  drown'd  the  whoopings  of  the  owl  with  sound 
Of  pious  hymns  and  psalms,  and  sometimes  saw 
An  angel  stand  and  watch  me,  as  I  sang. 
Now  am  I  feeble  grown  ;  my  end  draws  nigh ; 
I  hope  my  end  draws  nigh :  half  deaf  I  am, 
So  that  I  scarce  can  hear  the  people  hum 
About  the  column's  base,  and  almost  blind, 
And  scarce  can  recognize  the  fields  I  know; 
And  both  my  thighs  are  rotted  with  the  dew; 
Yet  cease  I  not  to  clamor  and  to  cry, 
While  my  stiff  spine  can  hold  my  weary  head, 
Till  all  my  limbs  drop  piecemeal  from  the  stone, 
Have  mercy,  mercy:  take  away  my  sin. 

0  Jesus,  if  thou  wilt  not  save  my  soul, 
Who  may  be  saved?  who  is  it  may  be  saved? 
Who  may  be  made  a  saint,  if  I  fail  here  ? 
Show  me  the  man  hath  suffer'd  more  than  I. 
For  did  not  all  thy  martyrs  die  one  death  ? 
For  either  they  were  stoned,  or  crucified, 

Or  burn'd  in  fire,  or  boil'd  in  oil,  or  sawn 
In  twain  beneath  the  ribs ;  but  I  die  here 
To-day,  and  whole  years  long,  a  life  of  death. 
Bear  witness,  if  I  could  have  found  a  way 
(And  heedfully  I  sifted  all  my  thought) 
More  slowly-painful  to  subdue  this  home 
Of  sin,  my  flesh,  which  I  despise  and  hate, 
I  had  not  stinted  practice,  O  my  God. 

For  not  alone  this  pillar-punishment, 
Not  this  alone  I  bore :  but  while  I  lived 
In  the  white  convent  down  the  valley  there, 
For  many  weeks  about  my  loins  I  wore 
The  rope  that  haled  the  buckets  from  the  well, 
Twisted  as  tight  as  I  could  knot  the  noose ; 
And  spake  not  of  it  to  a  single  soul, 
Until  the  ulcer,  eating  thro'  my  skin, 
Betray'd  my  secret  penance,  so  that  all 
My  brethren  marvell'd  greatly.    More  than  this 
I  bore,  whereof,  O  God,  thou  knowest  all. 

Three  winters,  that  my  soul  might  grow  to  thee, 
I  lived  up  there  on  yonder  mountain  side. 
My  right  leg  chain'd  into  the  crag,  I  lay 
Pent  in  a  roofless  close  of  ragged  stones ; 
luswathed  sometimes  in  wandering  mist,  and  twice 
Black'd  with  thy  branding  thunder,  and  sometimes 
Sucking  the  damps  for  drink,  and  eating  not, 
Except  the  spare  chance-gift  of  those  that  came 
To  touch  my  body  and  be  heal'd,  and  live  : 
And  they  say  then  that  I  work'd  miracles, 
Whereof  my  fame  is  loud  amongst  mankind, 
Cured  lameness,  palsies,  cancers.    Thou,  O  God, 
Knowest  alone  whether  this  was  or  DO. 
Have  mercy,  mercy ;  cover  all  my  sin. 

Then,  that  I  might  be  more  alone  with  thee, 
Three  years  I  lived  upon  a  pillar,  high 
Six  cubits,  and  three  years  on  one  of  twelve ; 
And  twice  three  years  I  crouch'd  on  oue  that  rose 
Twenty  by  measure ;  last  of  all,  I  grew, 
Twice  ten  long  weary  weary  years  to  this, 
That  numbers  forty  cubits  from  the  soil. 

1  think  that  I  have  borne  as  much  as  this — 
Or  else  I  dream— and  for  so  long  a  time, 

If  I  may  measure  time  by  yon  slow  light, 
And  this  high  dial,  which  my  sorrow  crowns — 
So  much — even  so. 

And  yet  I  know  not  well, 
For  that  the  evil,  ones  come  here,  and  say, 
"  Fall  down,  O  Simeon :  thou  hast  suffer'd  long 
For  ages  and  for  ages  !"  then  they  prate 
Of  penances  I  cannot  have  gone  thro*, 
Perplexing  me  with  lies ;  and  oft  I  fall, 
Maybe  for  months,  in  such  blind  lethargies, 
That  Heaven,  and  Earth,  and  Time  are  choked. 

But  yet 
Bethink  thee,  Lord,  while  thou  and  all  the  saints 


Enjoy  themselves  in  heaven,  and  men  on  earth 

House  in  the  shade  of  comfortable  roofs, 

Sit  with  their  wives  by  fires,  eat  wholesome  food, 

And  wear  warm  clothes,  and  even  beasts  have  stalls, 

I,  'tween  the  spring  and  downfall  of  the  light, 

Bow  down  one  thousand  and  two  hundred  times, 

To  Christ^  the  Virgin  Mother,  and  the  Saints; 

Or  in  the  night,  after  a  little  sleep, 

I  wake :  the  chill  stars  sparkle ;  I  am  wet 

With  drenching  dews,  or  stiff  with  crackling  frost, 

I  wear  an  undress'd  goatskin  on  my  back; 

A  grazing  iron  collar  grinds  my  neck; 

And  in  my  weak,  lean  arms  I  lift  the  cross. 

And  strive  and  wrestle  with  thee  till  I  die: 

0  mercy,  mercy  1  wash  away  my  sin. 

O  Lord,  thou  knowest  what  a  man  I  am ; 
A  sinful  man,  conceived  and  born  in  sin : 
'Tis  their  own  doing ;  this  is  none  of  mine : 
Lay  it  not  to  me.    Am  I  to  blame  for  this, 
That  here  come  those  that  worship  me  ?    Ha !  ha ! 
They  think  that  I  am  somewhat.    What  am  I  ? 
The  silly  people  take  me  for  a  saint, 
And  bring  me  offerings  of  fruit  and  flowers : 
And  I,  in  truth  (thou  wilt  bear  wituess  here) 
Have  all  in  all  endured  as  much,  and  more 
Than  many  just  and  holy  men,  whose  names 
Are  register'd  and  calendar'd  for  saints. 

Good  people,  you  do  ill  to  kneel  to  me. 
What  is  it  I  can  have  done  to  merit  this ! 

1  am  a  sinner  viler  than  you  all. 

It  may  be  I  have  wrought  some  miracles, 

And  cured  some  halt  and  maim'd  ;  but  what  of  that} 

It  may  be,  no  one,  even  among  the  saints, 

May  match  his  pains  with  mine ;  but  what  of  that  ? 

Yet  do  not  rise:  for  yon  may  look  on  me, 

And  in  your  looking  you  may  kneel  to  God. 

Speak !  is  there  any  of  you  halt  or  maim'd  ? 

I  think  you  know  I  have  some  power  with  Heaven 

From  my  long  penance :  let  him  speak  his  wish. 

Yes,  I  can  heal  him.    Power  goes  forth  from  me. 
They  say  that  they   are  heal'd.     Ah,   hark !   they 

shout 

"St.  Simeon  Stylites."    Why,  if  BO, 
God  reaps  a  harvest  in  me.    O  my  soul, 
God  reaps  a  harvest  in  thee.    If  this  be, 
Can  I  work  miracles  and  not  be  saved? 
This  is  not  told  of  any.    They  were  saints. 
It  cannot  be  but  that  I  shall  be  saved ; 
Yea,  crown'd  a  saint    They  shout,  "  Behold  a  saint !" 
And  lower  voices  saint  me  from  above. 
Courage,  St.  Simeon  !    This  dull  chrysalis 
Cracks  into  shining  wings,  and  hope  ere  death 
Spreads  more  and  more  and  more,  that  God  hath  now 
Sponged  and  made  blank  of  crimeful  record  all 
My  mortal  archives. 

O  my  sons,  my  sons, 
I,  Simeon  of  the  pillar,  by  surname 
Stylites,  among  men ;  I,  Simeon, 
The  watcher  on  the  column  till  the  end; 
I,  Simeon,  whose  brain  the  sunshine  bakes ; 
I,  whose  bald  brows  in  silent  hours  become 
Unnaturally  hoar  with  rime,  do  now 
From  my  high  nest  of  penance  here  proclaim 
That  Pontius  and  Iscariot  by  my  side  * 

Show'd  like  fair  seraphs.    On  the  coals  I  lay, 
A  vessel  full  of  sin :  all  hell  beneath 
Made  me  boil  over.    Devils  pluck'd  my  sleeve; 
Abaddon  and  Asmodeus  caught  at  me. 
I  smote  them  with  the  cross ;   they  swarm'd  again. 
In  bed  like  monstrous  apes  they  crnsh'd  my  chest; 
They  flapp'd  my  light  out  as  I  read:  I  saw 
Their  faces  grow  between  me  and  my  book: 
With  colt-like  whinny  and  with  hoggish  whine 
They  burst  my  prayer.    Yet  this  way  was  left, 
And  by  this  way  I  'scaped  them.    Mortify 
Your  flesh,  like  me,  with  scourges  and  with  thorns; 
Smite,  shrink  not,  spare  not.    If  it  may  be,  fast 
Whole  Lents,  and  pray.    I  hardly,  with  slov  steps, 


THE  TALKING  OAK. 


With  slow,  faiut  steps,  and  much  exceeding  pain, 
Have  scrambled  past  those  pits  of  fire,  that  still 
Sing  in  mine  ears.    But  yield  not  me  the  praise : 
God  only  thro'  his  bounty  hath  thought  fit, 
Among  the  powers  and  princes  of  this  world, 
To  make  me  an  example  to  mankind, 
Which  few  can  reach  to.    Yet  I  do  not  say 
But  that  a  time  may  come — yea,  even  now, 
Now,  now,  his  footsteps  smite  the  threshold  stairs 
Of  life — I  say,  that  time  is  at  the  doors 
When  you  may  worship  me  without  reproach ; 
For  I  will  leave  my  relics  in  your  land, 
And  you  may  carve  a  shrine  about  my  dust, 
And  burn  a  fragraut  lamp  before  my  bones, 
When  I  am  gather'd  to  the  glorious  saints. 

While  I  spake  then,  a  sting  of  shrewdest  pain 
Ran  shrivelling  thro'  me,  and  a  cloud-like  change, 
In  passing,  with  a  grosser  film  made  thick 
These  heavy,  horny  eyes.    The  end !  the  end ! 
Surely  the  end !    What's  here  ?  a  shape,  a  shade, 
A  flash  of  light.    Is  that  the  angel  there 
That  holds  a  crown  ?    Come,  blessed  brother,  come, 
I  know  thy  glittering  face.    I  waited  long; 
My  brows  are  ready.    What !  deny  it  now  ? 
Nay,  draw,  draw,  draw  nigh.    So  I  clutch  it.    Christ  I 
'Tis  gone :  'tis  here  again :  the  crown !  the  crown ! 
So  now  'tis  fitted  on  and  grows  to  me. 
And  from  it  melt  the  dews  of  Paradise, 
Sweet!  sweet!  spikenard,  and  balm,  and   frankin- 
cense. 

Ah !  let  me  not  be  fool'd,  sweet  saints :  I  trust 
That  I  am  whole,  and  clean,  and  meet  for  Heaven. 

Speak,  if  there  be  a  priest,  a  man  of  God, 
Among  yon  there,  and  let  him  preseutly 
Approach,  and  lean  a  ladder  on  the  shaft, 
And  climbing  up  into  my  airy  home, 
Deliver  me  the  blessed  sacrament ; 
For  by  the  warning  of  the  Holy  Ghost, 
I  prophesy  that  I  shall  die  to-night, 
A  quarter  before  twelve. 

But  thon,  O  Lord, 

Aid  all  this  foolish  people;  let  them  take 
Example,  pattern :  lead  them  to  thy  light. 


THE  TALKING  OAK. 

ONCB  more  the  gate  behind  me  falls ; 

Once  more  before  my  face 
I  see  the  moulder'd  Abbey-walls, 

That  stand  within  the  chace. 

Beyond  the  lodge  the  city  lies, 
Beneath  its  drift  of  smoke  ; 

And  ah!  with  what  delighted  eyes 
I  turn  to  yonder  oak. 

For  when  my  passion  first  began, 
Ere  that,  which  in  me  burn'd, 

The  love,  that  makes  me  thrice  a  man, 
Could  hope  itself  return'd ; 

To  yonder  oak  within  the  field 

I  spoke  without  restraint, 
And  with  a  larger  faith  appeal'd 

Than  Papist  unto  Saint. 

For  oft  I  talk'd  with  him  apart, 
And  told  him  of  my  choice, 

Until  he  plagiarized  a  heart, 
And  answer'd  with  a  voice. 

Tho'  what  he  whisper'd,  under  Heavon 
None  else  could  understand; 

I  found  him  garrulously  given, 
A  babbler  in  the  land. 

But  since  I  heard  him  make  reply 
Is  many  a  weary  hour ; 


'Twere  well  to  question  him,  and  try 
If  yet  he  keeps  the  power. 

Hail,  hidden  to  the  knees  in  fern, 

Broad  Oak  of  Sumner-chace, 
Whose  topmost  branches  can  discern 

The  roofs  of  Sumner-place  ! 

Say  thou,  whereon  I  carved  her  name, 

If  ever  maid  or  spouse, 
As  fair  as  my  Olivia,  came 

To  rest  beneath  thy  boughs. — 

"O  Walter,  I  have  shelter'd  here 

Whatever  maiden  grace 
The  good  old  Summers,  year  by  year, 

Made  ripe  in  Sumner-chace: 

"Old  Summers,  when  the  monk  was  fat. 

Arid,  issuing  shorn  and  sleek, 
Would  twist  his  girdle  tight,  and  pat 

The  girls  upon  the  cheek, 

"  Ere  yet,  in  scorn  of  Peter's-peuce, 
And  number'd  bead  and  shrift, 

Bluft'  Harry  broke  into  the  spence, 
And  turn'd  the  cowls  adrift: 

"And  I  have  seen  some  score  of  those 

Fresh  faces  that  would  thrive 
When  his  man-minded  offset  rose 

To  chase  the  deer  at  five; 

"And  all  that  from  the  town  would  stroll, 
Till  that  wild  wind  made  work 

In  which  the  gloomy  brewer's  soul 
Went  by  me,  like  a  stork: 

"The  slight  she-slips  of  loyal  blood, 

And  others,  passing  praise, 
Strait-laced,  but  all-too-full  in  bud 

For  puritanic  stays: 

"And  I  have  shadow'd  many  a  group 

Of  beauties  that  were  born 
In  teacup-times  of  hood  and  hoop, 

Or  while  the  patch  was  worn  ; 

"And,  leg  and  arm  with  love-knots  gay,     i 

About  me  leap'd  and  laugh'd 
The  modish  Cupid  of  the  day, 

And  shrill'd  his  tinsel  shaft. 

"  I  swear  (and  else  may  insects  prick 

Each  leaf  into  a  gall) 
This  girl,  for  whom  your  heart  is  sick, 

Is  three  times  worth  them  all; 

"  For  those  and  theirs,  by  Nature's  law, 

Have  faded  long  ago; 
But  in  these  latter  springs  I  saw 

Your  own  Olivia  blow, 

"  From  when  she  gamboll'd  on  the  greens, 

A  baby-germ,  to  when 
The  maiden  blossoms  of  her  teens 

Couid  number  five  from  ten. 

"  I  swear,  by  leaf,  and  wind,  and  rain, 
(And  hear  me  with  thine  ears,) 

That,  tho'  I  circle  in  the  grain 
Five  hundred  rings  of  years-^ 

"Yet,  since  I  first  coujd  cast  a  shads, 

Did  never  creature  pass 
So  slightly,  musically  made, 

So  light  upon  the  grass: 

"For  as  to  fairies,  that  will  flit 
To  make  the  greensward  fresh, 


THE  TALKING  OAK. 


I  hold  them  exquisitely  knit, 
But  far  too  spare  of  flesh." 

0,  hide  thy  knotted  knees  in  fern, 

And  overlook  the  chace; 
Aud  from  thy  topmost  branch  discern 

The  roofs  of  Sunmer-place. 

But  thou,  whereon  I  carved  her  name, 

That  oft  hast  heard  my  vows, 
Declare  when  last  Olivia  came 

To  sport  beneath  thy  boughs. 

"O  yesterday,  you  know,  the  fair 

Was  holden  at  the  town : 
Her  father  left  his  good  arm-chair, 

And  rode  his  hunter  down. 

"And  with  him  Albert  came  on  his, 

I  look'd  at  him  with  joy : 
As  cowslip  unto  oxlip  is, 

So  seems  she  to  the  boy. 

"An  hour  had  past — and,  sitting  straight 
Within  the  low-wheel'd  chaise, 

Her  mother  trundled  to  the  gate 
Behind  the  dappled  grays. 

"But,  as  for  her,  she  stay'd  at  home, 

And  on  the  roof  she  went, 
And  down  the  way  you  use  to  come 

She  look'd  with  discontent. 

"She  left  the  novel  half-uncut 

Upon  the  rosewood  shelf; 
She  left  the  new  piano  shut : 

She  could  not  please  herself. 

"  Then  ran  she,  gamesome  as  the  colt, 

And  livelier  than  a  lark 
She  sent  her  voice  thro'  all  the  holt 

Before  her,  and  the  park. 

"  A  light  wind  chased  her  on,  the  wing, 

And  in  the  chase  grew  wild, 
As  close  as  might  be  would  he  cling 

About  the  darling  child  : 

"But  light  as  any  wind  that  blows 

So  fleetly  did  she  stir, 
The  flower,  she  touch'd  on,  dipt  and  rose, 

And  tura'd  to  look  at  her. 

"And  here  she  came,  and  round  me  play'd, 

And  sang  to  me  the  whole 
Of  those  three  stanzas  that  you  made 

About  my  'giant  bole;' 

"  And  in  a  fit  of  frolic  mirth 

She  strove  to  span  my  waist; 
Alas,  I  was  so  broad  of  girth, 

I  could  not  be  embraced. 

"I  wish'd  myself  the  fair  young  beech 

That  here  beside  me  stands, 
That  round  me,  clasping  each  in  each, 

She  might  have  lock'd  her  hands. 

"Yet  seem'd  the  pressure  thrice  as  sweet 

As  woodbine's  fragile  hold, 
Or  when  I  feel  about  my  feet 

The  berried  briony  fold." 

O  muffle  ronnd  thy  knees  with  fern, 

And  shadow  Sumner-chace ! 
Long  may  thy  topmost  branch  discern 

The  roofs  of  Summer-place  ! 


But  tell  me,  did  she  read  the  name 

I  carved  with  many  vows 
When  last  with  throbbing  heart  I  came 

To  rest  beneath  thy  boughs  » 

"  O  yes,  she  wander'd  round  and  round 

These  knotted  knees  of  mine, 
And  found,  and  kiss'd  the  name  she  found, 

And  sweetly  murmur'd  thine. 

"A  teardrop  trembled  from  its  source, 

And  down  my  surface  crept. 
My  sense  of  touch  is  something  coarse, 

But  I  believe  she  wept 

"Then  flush'd  her  cheek  with  rosy  light, 

She  glanced  across  the  plain  ; 
But  not  a  creature  was  in  sight; 

She  kiss'd  me  once  again. 

"  Her  kisses  were  so  close  and  kind, 

That,  trust  me  on  my  word, 
Hard  wood  I  am,  and  wrinkled  rind, 

But  yet  my  sap  was  stirr'd: 

"And  even  into  my  inmost  ring 

A  pleasure  I  discern'd, 
Like  those  blind  motions  of  the  Spring, 

That  show  the  year  is  turn'd. 

"  Thrice-happy  he  that  may  caress 

The  ringlet's  waving  balm — 
The  cushions  of  whose  touch  may  press 

The  maiden's  tender  palm. 

"I,  rooted  here  among  the  groves, 

But  languidly  adjust 
My  vapid  vegetable  loves 

With  anthers  and  with  dust : 

"  For  ah  !  my  friend,  the  days  were  brief 

Whereof  the  poets  talk, 
When  that,  which  breathes  within  the  lea£ 

Could  slip  its  bark  and  walk. 

"Bnt  could  I,  as  in  times  foregone, 
From  spray,  and  branch,  and  stem, 

Have  suck'd  and  gather'd  into  one 
The  life  that  spreads  in  them,  • 

"She  had  not  found  me  so  remiss; 

But  lightly  issuing  thro", 
I  would  have  paid  her  kiss  for  kiss 

With  usury  thereto." 

O  flourish  high,  with  leafy  towers, 

And  overlook  the  lea, 
Pursue  thy  loves  among  the  bowers, 

But  leave  thou  mine  to  me. 

O  flourish,  hidden  deep  in  fern, 

Old  oak,  I  love  thee  well; 
A  thousand  thanks  for  what  I  learu 

And  what  remains  to  tell, 

"  'T  is  little  more ;  the  day  was  warm  ; 

At  last,  tired  out  with  play, 
She  sank  her  head  upon  her  arm, 

And  at  my  feet  she  lay. 

"  Her  eyelids  dropp'd  their  silken  eaves 

I  breather!  upon  her  eyes 
Thro'  all  the  summer  of  my  leaves 

A  welcome  mix'd  with  sighs. 

"  I  took  the  swarming  sound  of  life — 
The  music  from  the  town— 


LOVE  AND  DUTY. 


The  mnrmurs  of  the  drum  aud  fife, 
And  lull'd  them  in  my  own. 

"Sometimes  I  let  a  sunbeam  slip, 

To  light  her  shaded  eye ; 
A  second  flntter'd  round  her  lip 

Like  a  golden  butterfly; 

"A  third  would  glimmer  on  her  neck 

To  make  the  necklace  shine ; 
Another  slid,  a  sunny  fleck, 

From  head  to  ankle  flue. 

"Then  close  and  dark  my  arms  I  spread, 

And  shadow'd  all  her  rest  — 
Dropt  dews  upon  her  golden  head, 

An  acorn  in  her  breast. 

"  But  in  a  pet  she  started  up, 
And  pluck'd  it  out,  and  drew 

My  little  oakling  from  the  cup, 
And  flung  him  in  the  dew. 

"And  yet  it  was  a  graceful  gift — 

I  felt  a  pang  within 
As  when  I  see  the  woodman  lift 

His  axe  to  slay  my  kin. 

"I  shook  him  down  because  he  was 

The  finest  on  the  tree. 
He  lies  beside  thee  on  the  grass. 

O  kiss  him  once  for  me. 

"O  kiss  him  twice  and  thrice  for  me, 

That  have  no  lips  to  kiss, 
For  never  yet  was  oak  on  lea 

Shall  grow  so  fair  as  this." 

Step  deeper  yet  in  herb  and  fern, 

Look  further  thro'  the  chace, 
Spread  upward  till  thy  boughs  discern 

The  front  of  Sumner-place. 

This  fruit  of  thine  by  Love  is  blest, 

That  but  a  moment  lay 
Where  fairer  fruit  of  Love  may  rest 

Some  happy  future  day. 

I  kiss  it  twice,  I  kiss  it  thrice, 
The  warmth  it  thence  shall  win 

To  riper  life  may  magnetize 
The  baby-oak  within. 

Bnt  thou,  -while  kingdoms  overset 

Or  lapse  from  hand  to  hand, 
Thy  leaf  shall  never  fail,  nor  yet 

Thine  acorn  in  the  land. 

May  never  saw  dismember  thee, 

Nor  wielded  dxe  disjoint, 
That  art  the  fairest-spoken  tree 

From  here  to  Lizard-point. 

O  rock  upon  thy  towery  top 
All  throats  that  gurgle  sweet! 

All  starry  culmination  drop 
Balm-dews  to  bathe  thy  feet ! 

All  grass  of  silky  feather  grow— 

And  while  he  sinks  or  swells 
The  full  south-breeze  around  thee  blow 

The  sound  of  minster  bells. 

The  fat  earth  feed  thy  branchy  root, 

That  nnder  deeply  strikes  ! 
The  northern  morning  o'er  thee  shoot, 

High  up,  in  silver  spikes  I 


Nor  ever  lightning  char  thy  grain, 

But,  rolling  as  in  sleep, 
Low  thunders  bring  the  mellow  rain, 

That  makes  thee  broad  and  deep ! 

And  hear  me  swear  a  solemn  oath, 

That  only  by  thy  side 
Will  I  to  Olive  plight  my  troth, 

And  gain  her  for  my  bride. 

And  when  my  marriage  morn  may  fall, 

She,  Dryad-like,  shall  wear 
Alternate  leaf  and  acorn-ball 

In  wreath  about  her  hair. 

And  I  will  work  in  prose  and  rhyme, 
And  praise  thee  more  in  both 

Than  bard  has  honor'd  beech  or  lime, 
Or  that  Thessalian  growth, 

In  which  the  swarthy  ringdoves  sat, 
And  mystic  sentence  spoke  ; 

And  more  than  England  honors  that, 
Thy  famous  brother-oak, 

Wherein  the  younger  Charles  abode 
Till  all  the  paths  were  dim, 

And  far  below  the  Roundhead  rode, 
And  humm'd  a  surly  hymn. 


LOVE  AND  DUTY. 

OF  love  that  never  found  his  earthly  close, 

What  sequel  ?    Streaming  eyes  and  breaking  hearts  ? 

Or  all  the  same  as  if  he  had  not  been  ? 

Not  so.    Shall  Error  in  the  round  of  time 
Still  father  Truth  ?    O  shall  the  braggart  shout 
For  some  blind  glimpse  of  freedom  work  itself 
Thro'  madness,  hated  by  the  wise,  to  law 
System  and  empire  1    Sin  itself  be  found 
The  cloudy  porch  oft  opening  on  the  Sun? 
And  only  he,  this  wonder,  dead,  become 
Mere  highway  dust  !  or  year  by  year  alone 
Sit  brooding  in  the  ruins  of  a  life, 
Nightmare  of  youth,  the  spectre  of  himself? 

If  this  were  thus,  if  this,  indeed,  were  all, 
Better  the  narrow  brain,  the  stony  heart, 
The  staring  eye  glazed  o'er  with  sapless  days, 
The  long  mechanic  pacings  to  and  fro, 
The  set  gray  life,  and  apathetic  end. 
But  am  I  not  the  nobler  thro'  thy  love  ? 
O  three  times  less  unworthy !  likewise  thou 
Art  more  thro'  Love,  and  greater  than  thy  years. 
The  Sun  will  run  his  orbit,  and  the  Moon 
Her  circle.    Wait,  and  Love  himself  will  bring 
The  drooping  flower  of  knowledge  changed  to  fruit 
Of  wisdom.    Wait :  my  faith  is  large  in  Time, 
And  that  which  shapes  it  to  some  perfect  end. 

Will  some  one  say,  then  why  not  ill  for  good 
Why  took  ye  not  yonr  pastime  ?    To  that  man 
My  work  shall  answer,  since  I  knew  the  right 
And  did  it :  for  a  man  is  not  as  God, 
But  then  most  Godlike  being  most  a  man. 

— So  let  me  think  'tis  well  for  thee  and  me— 
Ill-fated  that  I  am,  what  lot  is  mine 
Whose  foresight  preaches  peace,  my  heart  so  slo«v 
To  feel  it !    For  how  hard  it  seem'd  to  me, 
When  eyes,  love-languid  thro'  half-tears,  would  dwel: 
One  earnest,  earnest  moment  upon  mine, 
Then  not  to  dare  to  see !  when  thy  low  voice, 
Faltering,  would  break  its  syllables,  to  keep 
My  own  full-tuned, — hold  passion  in  a  leash, 
And  not  leap  forth  and  fall  about  thy  neck, 
And  on  thy  bosom,  (deep-desired  relief!) 
Rain  out  the  heavy  mist  of  tears,  that  we'igh'd 
Upon  my  brain,  my  senses,  and  my  soul ! 


THE  GOLDEN  YEAR.— ULYSSES. 


57 


For  Love  himself  took  part  against  himself 
To  warn  us  off,  and  Duty  loved  of  Love — 
O  this  world's  curse, — beloved  but  hated — came 
Like  Death  betwixt  thy  dear  embrace  and  mine, 
And  crying,  Who  is  this  ?  behold  thy  bride," 
She  push'd  me  from  thee. 

If  the  sense  is  hard 

To  alien  ears,  I  did  not  speak  to  these — 
No,  not  to  thee,  but  to  myself  in  thee : 
Hard  is  my  doom  and  thine :  thou  knowest  it  all. 

Could  Love  part  thus?  was  it  not  well  to  s;;eak. 
To  have  spoken  once?    It  could  not  but  be  well. 
The  slow  sweet  hours  that  bring  us  all  things  good, 
The  slow  sad  hours  that  bring  us  all  things  ill, 
And  all  good  things  from  evil,  brought  the  night 
In  which  we  sat  together  and  alone, 
And  to  the  want,  that  hollow'd  all  the  heart, 
Save  utterance  by  the  yearning  of  an  eye, 
That  buru'd  upon  its  object  thro'  such  tears 
As  flow  but  once  a  life. 

The  trance  gave  way 
To  those  caresses,  when  a  hundred  times 
In  that  last  kiss,  which  never  was  the  last, 
Farewell,  like  endless  welcome,  lived  and  died. 
Then  follow'd  counsel,  comfort,  and  the  words 
That  make  a  man  feel  strong  in  speaking  truth  ; 
Till  now  the  dark  was  worn,  and  overhead 
The  lights  of  sunset  and  of  sunrise  mix'd 
In  that  brief  night ;  the  summer  night,  that  paused 
Among  her  stars  to  hear  us ;  stars  that  hung 
Love-charm 'd  to  listen :  all  the  wheels  of  Time 
Spun  round  in  station,  but  the  end  had  come. 

O  then  like  those,  who  clench  their  nerves  to  rush 
Upon  their  dissolution,  we  two  rose, 
There — closing  like  an  individual  life — 
In  one  blind  cry  of  passion  and  of  pain, 
Like  bitter  accusation  ev'n  to  death, 
Caught  up  the  whole  of  love  and  utter'd  it, 
And  bade  adieu  forever. 

Live— yet  live — 

Shall  sharpest  pathos  blight  us,  knowing  all 
Life  needs  for  life  is  possible  to  will — 
Live  happy ;  tend  thy  flowers ;  be  tended  by 
My  blessing!    Should  my  Shadow  cross  thy  thoughts 
Too  sadly  for  their  peace,  remand  it  thou 
For  calmer  hours  to  Memory's  darkest  hold, 
If  not  to  be  forgotten — not  at  once — 
Not  all  forgotten.    Should  it  cross  thy  dreams, 
O  might  it  come  like  one  that  looks  content, 
With  quiet  eyes  uufaithful  to  the  truth, 
And  point  thee  forward  to  a  distant  light, 
Or  seem  to  lift  a  burthen  from  thy  heart 
And  leave  thee  freer,  till  thou  wake  refresh'd, 
Then  when  the  low  matin-chirp  hath  grown 
Full  choir,  and  morning  driv'n  her  plough  of  pearl 
Far  furrowing  into  light  the  mounded  rack, 
Beyond  the  fair  green  field  and  eastern  sea. 


THE  GOLDEN  YEAR. 

WEW,,  you   shall   have    that   song   which   Leonard 

wrote : 

If  was  last  summer  on  a  tour  in  Wales : 
O!d  James  was  with  me :  we  that  day  had  been 
Up  Snowdon ;  and  I  wish'd  for  Leonard  there, 
And  found  him  in  Llamberis:  then  we  crost 
Between  the  lakes,  and  clainber'd  half  way  up 
The  counter  side ;  and  that  same  song  of  his 
He  told  me ;  for  I  banter'd  him,  and  swore 
They  said  he  lived  shut  up  within  himself, 
A  tongue-tied  Poet  in  the  feverous  days, 
That,  setting  the  how  much  before  the  how, 
Cry,  like  the  daughters  of  the  horse-leech,  "  Give, 
Cram  us  with  all,"  but  count  not  me  the  herd ! 

To  which  "They  call  me  what  they  will,"  he  said : 
"  But  I  was  born  too  late :  the  fair  new  forms, 


That  float  about  the  threshold  of  an  age, 

Like  truths  of  Science  waiting  to  be  caught — 

Catch  me  who  can,  and  make  the  catcher  crown'd — 

Are  taken  by  the  forelock.    Let  it  be. 

But  if  you  care  indeed  to  listen,  hear 

These  measured  words,  my  work  of  yestermorn. 

"We  sleep  and  wake  and   sleep,  hut  all  things 

move : 

The  Sun  flies  forward  to  his  brother  Sun ; 
The  dark  Earth  follows  wheel'd  in  her  ellipse ; 
And  human  things  returning  on  themselves 
Move  onward,  leading  up  the  golden  year. 

"Ah,  tho'  the  times,  when  some  new  thought  can 

bud, 

Are  but  as  poets'  seasons  when  they  flower, 
Yet  seas,  that  daily  gain  upon  the  shore, 
Have  ebb  and  flow  conditioning  their  march, 
And  slow  and  sure  comes  up  the  golden  year. 

"When  wealth  no  more  shall  rest  in 'mounded 

heaps, 

But  smit  with  freer  light  shall  slowly  melt 
In  jnany  streams  to  fatten  lower  lands, 
And  light  shall  spread,  and  man  be  liker  man 
Thro'  all  the  season  of  the  golden  year. 

"Shall  eagles  not  be  eagles?  wrens  be  wrens? 
If  all  the  world  were  falcons,  what  of  that? 
The  wonder  of  the  eagle  were  the  less, 
But  he  not  less  the  eagle.    Happy  days 
Roll  onward,  leading  up  the  golden  year. 

"Fly,  happy  happy  sails  and  bear  the  Press; 
Fly,  happy  with  the  mission  of  the  Cross; 
Knit  land  to  land,  and  blowing  havenward 
With  silks,  and  fruits,  and  spices,  clear  of  toll, 
Enrich  the  markets  of  the  golden  year. 

"  But  we   grow  old.    Ah !  when   shall  all  men's 

good 

Be  each  man's  rule,  and  universal  Peace 
Lie  like  a  shaft  of  light  across  the  land, 
And  like  a  lane  of  beams  athwart  the  sea, 
Thro'  all  the  circle  of  the  golden  year?" 

Thus  far  he  flowed,  and  ended ;  whereupon 
"Ah,  folly!"  in  mimic  cadence  answer'd  James — 
"Ah,  folly  !  for  it  lies  so  far  away, 
Not  in  our  time,  nor  in  our  children's  time, 
'T  is  like  the  second  world  to  us  that  live ; 
'T  were  all  as  one  to  fix  our  hopes  on  Heaven 
As  on  this  vision  of  the  golden  year." 

With  that  he  struck  his  staff  against  the  rocks 
And  broke  it, — James,— you  know  him,— old,  but  full 
Of  force  and  choler,  and  firm  upon  his  feet, 
And  like  an  oaken  stock  in  winter  woods, 
O'erflonrish'd  with  the  hoary  clematis  : 
Then  added,  all  in  heat: 

"What  stuff  is  this! 

Old  writers  push'd  the  happy  season  back, — 
The  more  fools  they, — we  forward:  dreamers  both: 
You  most,  that  in  an  age,  when  every  hour 
Must  sweat  her  sixty  minutes  to  the  death, 
Live  on,  God  love  us,  as  if  the  seedsman,  rapt 
Upon  the  teeming  harvest,  should  not  dip 
His  hand  into  the  bag:  but  well  I  know 
That  unto  him  who  works,  and  feels  he  works, 
This  same  grand  year  is  ever  at  the  doors." 

He  spoke ;  and,  high  above,  I  heard  them  blast 
The  steep  slate-quarry,  and  the  great  echo  flap 
And  buffet  round  the  hills  from  bluff  to  bluff. 


ULYSSES. 

IT  little  profits  that  an  idle  king, 

By  this  still  hearth,  among  these  barren  crags, 

Match'd  with  an  aged  wife,  I  mete  and  dole 

Unequal  laws  unto  a  savage  race, 

That  hoard,  and  sleep,  and  feed,  and  know  nof  me 

I  cannot  rest  from  travel:  I  will  drink 

Life  to  the  lees :  all  times  I  have  enjoy'd 


58 


ULYSSES. 


Greatly,  have  suffer'd  greatly,  both  with  those 

That  loved  me,  and  alone  ;  on  shore,  and  when 

Thro'  scudding  drifts  the  rainy  Hyades 

Vext  the  dim  sea:  I  am  become  a  name; 

For  always  roaming  with  a  hungry  heart 

Much  have  I  seen  and  known ;  cities  of  men 

And  manners,  climates,  councils,  governments, 

Myself  not  least,  but  honor'd  of  them  all ; 

And  drunk  delight  of  battle  with  my  peers, 

Far  on  the  ringing  plains  of  windy  Troy. 

I  am  a  part  of  all  that  I  have  met ; 

Yet  all  experience  is  an  arch  wherethro' 

Gleams  that  untravell'd  world,  whose  margin  fades 

Forever  and  forever  when  I  move. 

How  dull  it  is  to  pause,  to  make  an  end, 

To  rust  unburnish'd,  not  to  shine  in  use  ! 

As  tho'  to  breathe  were  life.    Life  piled  on  life 

Were  all  too  little,  and  of  one  to  me 

Little  remains :  but  every  hour  is  saved 

From  that  eternal  silence,  something  more, 

A  bringer  of  new  things ;  and  vile  it  Were 

For  some  three  suns  to  store  and  hoard  myself,. 

And  this  gray  spirit  yearning  in  desire 

To  follow  knowledge,  like  a  sinking  star, 

Beyond  the  utmost  bound  of  human  thought. 

This  is  my  son,  mine  own  Telemachus, 
To  whom  I  leave  the  sceptre  and  the  isle— 
Well-loved  of  me,  discerning  to  fulfil 
This  labor,  by  slow  prudence  to  make  mild 
A  rugged  people,  and  thro'  soft  degrees 
Subdue  them  to  the  useful  .and  the  good. 
Most  blameless  is  he,  centred  in  the  sphere 
Of  common  duties,  decent  not  to  fail 


In  offices  of  tenderness,  and  pay 
Meet  adoration  to  my  household  gods, 
When  I  am  gone.    He  works  his  work,  I  mine. 
There  lies  .the  port :  the  vessel  puffs  her  sail : 
There  gloom  the  dark  broad  seas.    My  mariners. 
Souls  that  have  toil'd,  and  wrought,  and  thought 

with  me — 

That  ever  with  a  frolic  welcome  took 
The  thunder  lind  the  sunshine,  and  opposed 
Free  hearts,  free  foreheads — you  and  I  are  old ; 
Old  age  hath  yet  his  honor  and  his  toil; 
Death  closes  all:  but  something  ere  the  end, 
Some  work  of  noble  note,  may  yet  be  done, 
Not  unbecoming  men  that  strove  with  Gods. 
The  lights  begin  to  twinkle  from  the  rocks: 
The  long  day  wanes :  the  slow  moon  climbs :  the 

deep 

Moans  round  with  many  voices.    Come,  my  friends, 
T  is  not  too  late  to  seek  a  newer  world. 
Push  off,  and  sitting  well  in  order  smite 
The  sounding  furrows;  for  my  purpose  holds 
To  sail  beyond  the  sunset,  and  the  baths 
Of  all  the  western  stars,  until  I  die. 
It  may  be  that  the  gulfs  will  wash  us  downj 
It  may  be  we  shall  touch  the  Happy  Isles, 
And  see  the  great  Achilles,  whom  we  knew. 
Tho'  much  is  taken,  much  abides ;  and  tho' 
We  are  not  now  that  strength  which  in  old  days 
Moved  earth  and  heaven ;  that  which  we  are,  we 

are; 

One  equal  temper  of  heroic  hearts, 
Made  weak  by  time  and  fate,  but  strong  in  will 
To  strive,  to  seek,  to  find,  and  not  to  yield. 


"  There  lies  the  port :  the  vessel  yuffa  her  sail : 
Thwe  gloom  the  dark  broad  seas." 


LOCKSLEY  HALL.  59 


LOCKSLEY    HALL. 

COMBADES,  leave  tne  here  a  little,  while  as  yet  't  is  early  morn ; 
Leave  me  here,  arid  when  you  want  me,  sound  upon  the  bugle  horn. 

'T  is  the  place,  and  all  around  it,  as  of  old,  the  curlews  call, 
Dreary  gleams  about  the  moorland  flying  over  Locksley  Hall ; 

Locksley  Hall,  that  in  the  distance  overlooks  the  sandy  tracts, 
And  the  hollow  ocean-ridges  roaring  into  cataracts. 

Many  a  night  from  yonder  ivied  casement,  ere  I  went  to  rest, 
Did  I  look  on  great  Orion  sloping  slowly  to  the  West. 

Many  a  night  I  saw  the  Pleiads,  rising  thro'  the  mellow  shade, 
Glitter  like  a  swarm  of  fire-flies  tangled  in  a  silver  braid. 

Here  about  the  beach  I  wander'd,  nourishing  a  youth  sublime 
With  the  fairy  tales  of  science,  and  the  long  result  of  Time ; 

When  the  centuries  behind  me  like  a  fruitful  land  reposed; 
When  I  clung  to  all  the  present  for  the  promise  that  it  closed: 

When  I  dipt  into  the  future  far  as  human  eye  could  see; 

Saw  the  Vision  of  the  world,  and  all  the  wonder  that  would  be. — 

In  the  Spring  a  fuller  crimson  comes  upon  the  robin's  breast; 
In  the  Spring  the  wanton  lapwing  gets  himself  another  crest ; 

In  the  Spring  a  livelier  iris  changes  on  the  burnish'd  dove ; 

In  the  Spring  a  young  man's  fancy  lightly  turns  to  thoughts  of  love. 

Then  her  cheek  was  pale  and  thinner  than  should  be  for  one  so  young, 
And  her  eyes  on  all  my  motions  with  a  mute  observance  hung. 

And  I  said,  "  My  cousiii  Amy,  speak,  and  speak  the  truth  to  me, 
Trust  me,  cousin,  all  the  current  of  my  being  sets  to  thee." 

On  her  pallid  cheek  and  forehead  came  a  color  and  a  light, 
As  I  have  seen  the  rosy  red  flushing  in  the  northern  night. 

And  she  turn'd— her  bosom  shaken  with  a  sudden  storm  of  sighs- 
All  the  spirit  deeply  dawning  in  the  dark  of  hazel  eyes- 
Saying,  "  I  have  hid  my  feelings,  fearing  they  should  do  me  wrong ;" 
Saying,  "Dost  thou  love  me,  cousin?"  weeping,  "I  have  loved  thee  long.'* 

Love  took  up  the  glass  of  Time,  and  turn'd  it  in  his  glowing  hands; 
Every  moment,  lightly  shaken,  ran  itself  in  golden  sands. 

Love  took  up  the  harp  of  Life,  and  smote  on  all  the  chords  with  might:    ) 
Smote  the  chord  of  Self,  that,  trembling,  pass'd  in  music  out  of  sight. 

Many  a  morning  on  the  moorland  did  we  hear  the  copses  ring, 
And  her  whisper  throng'd  my  pulses  with  the  fulness  of  the  Spring. 

Many  an  evening  by  the  waters  did  we  watch  the  stately-  ships, 
And  our  spirits  rush'd  together  at  the  touching  of  the  lips. 

O  my  cousin,  shallow-hearted !    O  my  Amy,  mine  no  more ! 
O  the  dreary,  dreary  moorland !    O  the  barren,  barren  shore ! 

Falser  than  all  fancy  fathoms,  falser  than  all  songs  have  snnsr, 
Puppet  to  a  father's  threat,  and  servile  to  a  shrewish  tongue ! 

Is  it  well  to  wish  thee  happy?— having  known  me— to  decline 
On  a  range  of  lower  feelings  and  a  narrower  heart  than  mine ! 


GO 


LOCKSLEY  HALL. 


"  Many  an  evening  by  the  waters  did  we  watch  the  stately  ships, 
And  our  spirits  rushed  together  at  the  touching  of  the  lips." 


Yet  it  shall  be:  thou  shalt  lower  to  his  level  day  by  day,    • 
What  is  flue  within  thee  growing  coarse  to  sympathize  with  clay. 

As  the  husband  is,  the  wife  is:  thou  art  mated  with  a  clown, 

And  the  grossness  of  his  nature  will  have  weight  to  drag  thee  down. 

He  will  hold  thee,  when  his  passion  shall  have  spent  its  novel  force, 
Something  better  than  his  dog,  a  little  dearer  than  his  horse. 

What  is  this?  his  eyes  are  heavy:  think  not  they  are  glazed  with  wine. 
Go  to  him :  it  is  thy  duty :  kiss  him :  take  his  hand  in  thine. 

It  may  be  my  lord  is  weary,  that  his  brain  is  overwrought ; 

Soothe  him  with  thy  finer  fancies,  touch  him  with  thy  lighter  thought. 

He  will  answer  to  the  purpose,  easy  things  to  understand — 
Better  thou  wert  dead  before  me,  tho'  I  slew  thee  with  my  hand ! 

Better  thou  and  I  were  lying,  hidden  from  the  heart's  disgrace, 
Roll'd  in  one  another's  arms,  and  silent  in  a  last  embrace. 

Cursed  be  the  social  wants  that  sin  against  the  strength  of  youth ! 
Cursed  be  the  social  lies  that  warp  us  from  the  living  truth ! 

Cursed  be  the  sickly  forms  that  err  from  honest  Nature's  rule ! 
Cursed  be  the  gold  that  gilds  the  straiten'd  forehead  of  the  fool ! 

Well— 'tis  well  that  I  should  bluster !— Hadst  thou  less  unworthy  proved- 
Would  to  God— for  I  had  loved  thee  more  than  ever  wife  was  loved. 

Am  T  mad,  that  I  should  cherish  that  which  bears  but  bitter  fruit? 
I  will  pluck  it  from  my  bosom,  tho'  my  heart  be  at  the  root. 

Never,  tho'  my  mortal  summers  to  such  length  of  years  should  come 
As  the  many-winter'd  crow  that  leads  the  clanging  rookery  home. 


LOCKSLEY  HALL.  61 

Where  is  comfort  ?  in  division  of  the  records  of  the  mind  ? 
Can  I  part  her  from  herself,  and  love  her,  as  I  knew  her,  kind  ? 

I  remember  one  that  perish'd :  sweetly  did  she  speak  and  move  : 
Such  a,  one  do  I  remember,  whom  to  look  at  was  to  love.         .   . 

Can  I  think  of  her  as  dead,  and  love  her  for  the  love  she  bore  ? 
No — she  never  loved  me  truly:  love  is  love  forevermore. 

Comfort?  comfort  scorn'd  of  devils  !  this  is  truth  the  poet  sings, 
That  a  sorrow's  crown  of  sorrow  is  remembering  happier  things. 

Drug  thy  memories,  lest  thou  learn  it,  lest  thy  heart  be  put  to  proof, 
In  the  dead  unhappy  night,  when  the  rain  is  on  the  roof. 

Like  a  dog,  he  hunts  in  dreams,  and  thou  art  staring  at  the  wall, 
Where  the  dying  night-lamp  nickers,  and  the  shadows  rise  and  fall. 

Then  a  hand  shall  pass  before  thee,  pointing  to  his  drunken  sleep, 
To  thy  widow'd  marriage  pillows,  to  the  tears  that  thou  wilt  weep. 

Thou  shalt  hear  the  "Never,  never,"  whisper'd  by  the  phantom  years, 
And  a  song  from  out  the  distance  in  the  ringing  of  thine  ears ; 

And  an  eye  shall  vex  thee,  looking  ancient  kindness  on  thy  pain. 
Turn  thee,  turn  thee  on  thy  pillow:  get  thee  to  thy  rest  again. 

Nay,  but  Nature  brings  thee  solace ;  for  a  tender  voice  will  cry. 
'Tis  a  purer  life  than  thine;  a  lip  to  drain  thy  trouble  dry. 

Baby  lips  will  laugh  me  down :  my  latest  rival  brings  thee  rest. 
Baby  fingers,  waxen  touches,  press  me  from  the  mother's  breast. 

O,  the  child  too  clothes  the  father  with  a  clearness  not  his  due. 
Half  is  thine  and  half  is  his :  it  will  be  worthy  of  the  two. 

O,  I  see  thee  old  and  formal,  fitted  to  thy  petty  part, 

With  a  little  hoard  of  maxims  preaching  down  a  daughter's  heart. 

"They  were  dangerous  guides  the  feelings — she  herself  was  not  exempt- 
Truly,  she  herself  had  suffer'd  " — Perish  in  thy  self-contempt ! 

Overlive  it— lower  yet— be  happy  !  wherefore  should  I  care  ? 
I  myself  must  mix  with  action,  lest  I  wither  by  despair. 

What  is  that  which  I  should  turn  to,  lighting  upon  days  like  these? 
Every  door  is  barr'd  with  gold,  and  opens  but  to  golden  keys. 

Every  gate  is  throng'd  with  suitors,"all  the  markets  overflow. 
I  have  but  an  angry  fancy :  what  is  that  which  I  should  do  ? 

I  had  been  content  to  perish,  falling  on  the  foeman's  ground, 

When  the  ranks  are  roll'd  in  vapor,  and  the  winds  are  laid  with  sound. 

But  the  jingling  of  the  guinea  helps  the  hurt  that  Honor  feels, 
And  the  nations  do  but  murmur,  snarling  at  each  other's  heels. 

Can  I  but  relive  in  sadness  ?    I  will  turn  that  earlier  page. 
Hide  me  from  my  deep  emotion,  O  thou  wondrous  Mother-Age  I 

Make  me  feel  the  wild  pulsation  that  I  felt  before  the  strife, 
When  I  heard  my  days  before  me,  and  the  tumult  of  my  life ; 

Yearning  for  the  large  excitement  that  the  coming  years  would  yield, 
Eager-hearted  as  a  boy  when  first  he  leaves  his  father's  field, 

And  at  night  along  the  dusky  highway,  near  and  nearer  drawn, 
Sees  in  heaven  the  light  of  London  flaring  like  a  dreary  dawn ; 

And  his  spirit  leaps  within  him  to  be  gone  before  him  then, 
Underneath  the  light  he  looks  at,  in  among  the  throngs  of  men ; 

Men,  my  brothers,  men  the  workers,  ever  reaping  something  new; 

That  which  they  have  done  but  earnest  of  the  things  that  they  shall  do  3 

For  I  dipt  into  the  future,  far  as  human  eye  could  see, 

Saw  the  Vision  of  the  world,  and  all  the  wonder  that  would  be ; 


02  LOCKSLEY  HALL. 


Saw  the  heavens  fill  with  commerce,  argosies  of  magic  sails, 
Pilots  of  the  purple  twilight,  dropping  down  with  costly  bales ; 

Heard  the  heavens  fill  with  shouting,  and  there  rain'd  a  ghastly  d«w 
From  the  nations'  airy  navies  grappling  in  the  central  blue ; 

Far  along  the  world-wide  whisper  of  the  south-wind  rushing  warm, 
With  the  standards  of  the  peoples  plunging  thro'  the  thunder-storm; 

Till  the  war-drum  throbb'd  no  longer,  and  the  battle-flags  were  furl'd 
In  the  Parliament  of  man,  the  Federation  of  the  world. 

There  the  common  sense  of  most  shall  hold  a  fretful  realm  in  awe, 
And  the  kindly  earth  shall  slumber,  lapt  in  universal  law. 

So  I  triumph'd,  ere  my  passion  sweeping  thro'  me  left  me  dry, 
Left  me  with  the  palsied  heart,  and  left  me  with  the  jaundiced  eye ; 

Eye,  to  which  all  order  festers,  all  things  here  are  out  of  joint, 
Science  moves,  but  slowly  slowly,  creeping  on  from  point  to  point  : 

Slowly  comes  a  hungry  people,  as  a  lion,  creeping  nigher, 
Glares  at  one  that  nods  and  winks  behind  a  slowly-dying  flre. 

Yet  I  doubt  not  thro'  the  ages  one  increasing  purpose  runs, 

And  the  thoughts  of  men  are  wideu'd  with  the  process  of  the  sans. 

What  is  that  to  him  that  reaps  not  harvest  of  his  youthful  joys, 
Tho'  the  deep  heart  of  existence  beat  forever  like  a  boy's  ? 

Knowledge  comes,  but  wisdom  lingers,  and  I  linger  on  the  shore, 
And  the  individual  withers,  and  the  world  is  more  and  more. 

Knowledge  comes,  but  wisdom  lingers,  and  he  bears  a  laden  breast, 
Full  of  sad  experience,  moving  toward  the  stillness  of  his  rest 

Hark,  my  merry  comrades  call  me,  sounding  on  the  bugle-horn, 
They  to  whom  my  foolish  passion  were  a  target  for  their  scorn: 

Shall  it  not  be  scorn  to  me  to  harp  on  such  a  monlder'd  string  1 
I  am  shamed  thro'  all  my  nature  to  have  loved  so  slight  a  thing. 

Weakness  to  be  wroth  with  weakness  !  woman's  pleasure,  woman's  pain-~ 
Nature  made  them  blinder  motions  bounded  in  a  shallower  brain : 

Woman  is  the  lesser  man,  and  all  thy  passions,  match'd  with  mine, 
Are  as  moonlight  unto  sunlight,  and  as  water  unto  wine- 
Here  at  least,  where  nature  sickens,  nothing.    Ah,  for  some  retreat 
Deep  in  yonder  shining  Orient,  where  my  life  began  to  beat ; 

Where  in  wild  Mahratta-battle  fell  my  father  evil-starr'd ;— 
I  Was  left  a  trampled  orphan,  and  a  selfish  uncle's  ward. 

Or  to  burst  all  links  of  habit— there  to  wander  far  away,    li- 
On  from  island  unto  island  at  the  gateways  of  the  day. 

Larger  constellations  burning,  mellow  moons  and  happy  skies, 
Breadths  of  tropic  shade  and  palms  in  cluster,  knots  of  Paradise. 

Never  comes  the  trader,  never  floats  an  European  flag, 

Slides  the  bird  o'er  lustrous  woodland,  swings  the  trailer  from  the  crag ; 

Droops  the  heavy-blossom'd  bower,  hangs  the  heavy-fruited  tree — 
Summer  isles  of  Eden  lying  in  dark-purple  spheres  of  sea. 

There  methinks  would  be  enjoyment  more  than  in  this  march  of  mind, 
In  the  steamship,  in  the  railway,  in  the  thoughts  that  shake  mankind. 

There  the  passions  cramp'd  no  longer  shall  have  scope  and  breathing-space  < 
I  will  take  some  savage  woman,  she  shall  rear  my  dusky  race. 

Iron-jointed,  snpple-sinew'd,  they  shall  dive,  and  they  shall  run, 
Catch  the  wild  goat  by  the  hair,  and  hurl  their  lances  in  the  sun ; 

Whistle  back  the  parrot's  call,  and  leap  the  rainbows  of  the  brooks, 
Not  with  blinded  eyesight  poring  over  miserable  books— 


GODIVA. 


63 


I"ool,  again  the  dream,  the  fancy !  but  I  know  my  words  are  wild, 
But  I  count  the  gray  barbarian  lower  than  the  Christian  child. 

/,  to  herd  with  narrow  foreheads,  vacant  of  our  glorious  gains, 
Like  a  beast  with  lower  pleasures,  like  a  beast  with  lower  pains ! 

Mated  with  a  squalid  savage — what  to  me  were  sun  or  clime  ? 
I  the  heir  of  all  the  ages,  in  the  foremost  flies  of  time — 

I  that  rather  held  it  better  men  should  perish  one  by  one, 

Than  that  earth  should  stand  at  gaze  like  Joshua's  moon  in  Ajalon ! 

Not  in  vain  the  distance  beacons.    Forward,  forward  let  us  range. 
Let  the  great  world  spin  forever  down"  the  ringing  grooves  of  change. 

Thro'  the  shadow  of  the  globe  we  sweep  into  the  younger  day  : 
Better  fifty  years  of  Europe  than  a  cycle  of  Cathay. 

Mother-Age  (for  mine  I  knew  not)  help  me  as  when  life  begun: 

Rift  the  hills,  and  roll  the  waters,  flash  the  lightnings,  weigh  the  Sun- 

O,  I  see  the  crescent  promise  of  my  spirit  hath  not  set. 
Ancient  founts  of  inspiration  well  thro'  all.  my  fancy  yet 

Howsoever  these  things  be,  a  long  farewell  to  Locksley  Hall ! 
Now  for  me  the  woods  may  wither,  now  for  me  the  roof-tree  fall. 

Comes  a  vapor  from  the  margin,  blackening  over  heath  and  holt, 
Cramming  all  the  blast  before  it,  in  its  breast  a  thunderbolt. 

Let  it  fall  on  Locksley  Hall,  with  rain  or  hail,  or  fire  or  snow ; 
For  the  mighty  wind  arises,  roaring  seaward,  and  I  go. 


GODIVA. 

7  waited  for  the  train  at  Coventry; 
1  hung  with  grooms  and  porters  on  the  bridge, 
To  watch  the  three  tall  spires;  and  there  I  shaped 
The  city's  ancient  legend  into  this: 


Not  only  we,  the  latest  seed  of  Time, 
New  men,  that  in  the  flying  of  a  wheel 
Cry  down  the  past,  not  only  we,  that  prate 
Of  rights  and  wrongs,  have  loved  the  people  wc.Ji, 
And  loathed  to  see  them  overtax'd :  but  she 
Did  more,  and  underwent,  and  overcame, 


Unclasp'd  the  wedded  eagles  of  her  belt.' 


64 


THE  TWO  VOICES. 


The  woman  of  a  thousand  summers  back, 

Godiva,  wife  to  that  grim  Earl,  who  ruled 

In  Coventry:  for  when  he  laid  a  tax 

Upon  his  town,  and  all  the  mothers  brought 

Their  children,  clamoring,  "If  we  pay,  we  starve !" 

She  sought  her  lord,  and  found  him,  where  he  strode 

About  the  hall,  among  his  dogs,  alone, 

His  beard  a  foot  before  him,  and  his 'hair 

A  yard  behind.    She  told  him  of  their  tears, 

And  pray'd  him,  "  If  they  pay  this  tax,  they  starve." 

Whereat  he  stared,  replying,  half-amazed, 

"  You  would  not  let  your  little  finger  ache 

For  such  as  these?" — "But  I  would  die,"  said  she. 

He  laugh'd,  and  swore  by  Peter  and  by  Paul: 

Then  fillip'd  at  the  diamond  in  her  ear; 

"O  ay,' ay,  ay,  you  talk!" — "Alas!"  she  said, 

"But  prove  me  what  it  is  I  would  not  do." 

And  from  a  heart  as  rough  as  Esau's  hand, 

He  answer'd,  "  Ride  you  naked  thro'  the  town, 

And  I  repeal  it ;"  and  nodding,  as  in  scorn, 

He  parted,  with  great  strides  among  his  dogs. 

So  left  alone,  the  passions  of  her  mind, 
As  winds  from  all  the  compass  shift  and  blow, 
Made  war  upon  each  other  for  an  hour, 
Till  pity  won.    She  sent  a  herald  forth, 
And  bade  him  cry,  with  sound  of  trumpet,  all 
The  hard  condition ;  but  that  she  would  loose 
The  people:  therefore,  as  they  loved  her  well, 
Prom  then  till  noon  no  foot  should  pace  the  street, 
No  eye  look  down,  she  passing:  but  that  all 
Should  keep  within,  door  shut,  and  window  barr'd. 

Then  fled  she  to  her  inmost  bower,  and  there 
tlnclasp'd  the  wedded  eagles  of  her  belt, 
The  grim  Earl's  gift;  but  ever  at  a  breath 
She  linger'd,  looking  like  a  summer  moon 
Half-dipt  in  cloud:  anon  she  shook  her  head, 
And  shower'd  the  rippled  ringlets  to  her  knee; 
Unclad  herself  in  haste ;  adown  the  stair 
Stole  on ;  and,  like  a  creeping  sunbeam,  slid 
Krom  pillar  unto  pillar,  until  she  reach'd 
The  gateway ;  there  she  fonnd  her  palfrey  trapt 
In  purple  blazon'd  with  armorial  gold. 

Then  she  rode  forth,  clothed  on  with  chastity: 
The  deep  air  listen'd  round  her  as  she  rode, 
And  all  the  low  wind  hardly  breathed  for  fear. 
The  little  wide-mouth'd  heads  upon  the  spout 
Had  cunning  eyes  to  see:  the  barking  cur 
Made  her  cheek  flame :  her  palfrey's  footfall  shot 
Light  horrors  thro'  her  pulses:  the  blind  walls 
Were  full  of  chinks  and  holes ;  and  overhead 
Fantastic  gables,  crowding,  stared :  but  she 
Not  less  thro'  all  bore  up,  till,  last,  she  saw 
The  white-flower'd  elder-thicket  from  the  field 
Gleam  thro'  the  Gothic  archways  in  the  wall. 

Then  she  rode  back,  clothed  on  with  chastity : 
And  one  low  churl,  compact  of  thankless  earth, 
The  fatal  byword  of  all  years  to  come, 
Boring  a  little  auger-hole  in  fear, 
Peep'd— but  his  eyes,  before  they  had  their  will, 
Were  shrivell'd  into  darkness  in  his  head, 
And  dropt  before' him.    So  the  Powers,  who  wait 
On  noble  deeds,  cancell'd  a  sense  misused ; 
And  she,  that  knew  not,  pass'd :  and  all  at  once, 
With  twelve  great  shocks  of  sound,  the  shameless 

noon 

Was  clash'd  and  haramer'd  from  a  hundred  towers, 
One  after  one:  but  even  then  she  gain'd 
Her  bower ;  whence  reissuing,  robed  and  crown 'd, 
To  meet  her  lord,  she  took  the  tax  away, 
And  built  herself  an  everlasting  name. 


THE  TWO  VOICES. 

A  STILL  small  voice  spake  unto  me, 
"  Thou  art  so  full  of  misery, 
Were  it  not  better  not  to  be  ?" 


Then  to  the  still  small  voice  I  said 
"Let  me  not  cast  in  endless  shade 
What  is  so  wonderfully  made." 


***tf 


To  which  the  voice  did  urge  reply 

"To-day  I  saw  the  dragon-fly 

Come  from  the  wells  where  he  did  lie. 

"An  inner  impulse  rent  the  veil 
Of  his  old  husk :  from  head  to  tail 
Came  out  clear  plates  of  sapphire  mail. 

"He  dried  his  wings:  like  gauze  they  grew; 
Th-o'  crofts  and  pastures  wet  with  dew 
A  living  flash  of  light  he  flew." 

I  said,  "When  first  the  world  began, 
Young  Nature  thro'  five  cycles  ran, 
And  in  the  sixth  she  moulded  man. 

"  She  gave  him  mind,  the  lordliest 
Proportion,  and,  above  the  rest, 
Dominion  in  the  head  and  breast." 

Thereto  the  silent  voice  replied: 

"  Self-blinded  are  you  by  your  pride : 

Look  up  thro'  night :  the  world  is  wide. 

"This  truth  within  thy  mind  rehearse, 
That  in  a  boundless  universe  ^ 

Is  boundless  better,  boundless  worse. 

"Think  you  this  mould  of  hopes  and  feara 

Cc~'J  ^~J *• 

In 


'Think  you  this  mould  of  hopes  and 
!ould  find  no  statelier  than  his  peers 
n  yonder  hundred  million  spheres  ?" 


It  spake,  moreover,  in  my  mind : 
"Tho'  thon  wert  scatter'd  to  the  wind, 
Yet  is  there  plenty  of  the  kind." 

Then  did  my  response  clearer  fall : 
"  No  compound  of  this  earthly  ball 
Is  like  another,  all  in  all." 

To  which  he  answer'd  scofHugly: 
"Good  soul!  suppose  I  grant  it  thee, 
Who  '11  weep  for  thy  deficiency  ? 

"  Or  will  one  beam  be  less  intense, 

When  thy  peculiar  difference 

Is  cancell'd  in  the  world  of  sense  f " 

I  would  have  said,  "  Thou  canst  not  knovv  '•'• 
But  my  full  heart,  that  work'd  below, 
Kain'd  thro'  my  sight  its  overflow. 

Again  the  voice  spake  unto  me: 
"Thou  art  so  steep'd  in  misery; 
Surely,  't  were  better  not  to  be. 

"  Thine  anguish  will  not  let  thee  sleep, 

Nor  any  train  of  reason  keep : 

Thon  canst  not  think  but  thou  wilt  weep. 

I  said,  "The  years  with  change  advance: 
If  I  make  dark  my  countenance, 
I  shut  my  life  from  happier  chance. 

"  Some  turn  this  sickness  yet  might  take. 
Ev'n  yet"    But  he  :  "  What  drug  can  make 
A  wither'd  palsy  cease  to  shake  ?" 

*  I  wept,  "  Tho'  I  should  die,  I  know 
That  all  about  the  thorn  will  blow 
In  tufts  of  rosy-tinted  snow; 

"And  men,  thro'  novel  spheres  of  thought 
Still  moving  after  truth  long  sought, 
Will  learn  new  things  when  1  am  not" 


THE  TWO  VOICES. 


"  Yet,"  said  the  secret  voice,  "  some  time 
Sooner  or  later,  will  gray  prime 
Make  thy  grass  hoar  with  early  rime. 

"Not  less  swift  souls  that  yea_rn  for  light, 

Rapt  after  heaven's  starry  flight, 

Would  sweep  the  tracts  of  day  and  night. 

"Not  less  the  bee  would  range  her  cells, 
The  furzy  prickle  lire  the  dells, 
The  foxglove  cluster  dappled  bells." 

I  said  that  "  all  the  years  invent  • 
Each  month  is  various  to  present 
The  world  with  some  development. 

"Were  this  not  well,  to  bide  mine  hour, 
Tho'  watching  from  a  ruin'd  tower 
How  grows  the  day  of  human  power  f " 

"The  highest-mounted  mind,"  he  said, 
"  Still  sees  the  sacred  morning  spread 
The  silent  summit  overhead. 

"Will  thirty  seasons  render  plain 
Those  lonely  lights  that  still  remain, 
Just  breaking  over  laud  and  main  ? 

"Or  make  that  morn,  from  his  cold  crown 
And  crystal  silence  creeping  down, 
Flood  with  full  daylight  glebe  and  town  ? 

"  Forerun  thy  peers,  thy  time,  and  let 

Thy  feet,  millenniums  hence,  be  set 

In  midst  of  knowledge,  dream'd  not  yet 

"  Thou  hast  not  gained  a  real  height, 
Nor  art  thou  nearer  to  the  light, 
Because  the  scale  is  infinite. 

"  'T  were  better  not  to  breathe  or  speak, 
Thau  cry  for  strength,  remaining  weak, 
Aiid  seem  to  find,  but  still  to  seek. 

"Moreover,  but  to  seem  to  find 

Asks  what  thou  lackest,  thought  resign'd, 

A  healthy  frame,  a  quiet  mind." 

I  said,  "When  I  am  gone  away, 
'He  dared  not  tarry,' men  will  say, 
Doing  dishonor  to  my  clay." 

"This  is  more  vile,"  he  made  reply, 
"To  breathe  and  loathe,  to  live  and  sigh, 
Thau-  once  from  dread  of  pain  to  die. 

"Sick  art  thou — a  divided  will 
Still  heaping  on  the  fear  of  ill 
The  fear  of  men,  a  coward  still. 

"  Do  men  love  thee?    Art  thou  so  bound 
To  men,  that  how  thy  name  may  sound 
Will  vex  thee  lying  underground? 

"  The  memory  of  the  wither'd  leaf 
In  endless  time  is  scarce  more  brief 
Thau  of  the  garner'd  Autumn-sheaf. 

"  Go,  vexed  Spirit,  sleep  in  trust ; 
The  right  ear,  that  is  fill'd  with  dust, 
Hears  little  of  the  false  or  just." 

"Hard  task,  to  pluck  resolve,"!  cried, 
"  From  emptiness  and  the  waste  wide 
Of  that  abyss,  or  scornful  pride ! 

"  Nay  —  rather  yet  that  I  could  raise 
One  hope  that  warm'd  me  in  the  days 
While  still  I  yearn'd  for  human  praise. 
5 


"  When,  wide  in  soul  and  bold  of  tongue, 
Among  the  tents  I  paused  and  suug, 
The  distant  battle  flash'd  and  rung. 

"I  sung  the  joyful  Psean  clear, 
And,  sitting,  buruish'd  without  fear 
The  brand,  the  buckler,  and  the  spear— 

"Waiting  to  strive  a  happy  strife, 
To  war  with  falsehood  to  the  knife, 
And  not  to  lose  the  good  of  life — 

"Some  hidden  principle  to  move, 

To  put  together,  part  and  prove, 

And  mete  the  bounds  of  hate  and  love — 

"As  far  as  might  be,  to  carve  out 
Free  space  for  every  human  doubt, 
That  the  whole  mind  might  orb  about — 

"To  search  thro'  all  I  felt  or  saw, 
The  springs  of  life,  the  depths  of  awe, 
And  reach  the  law  within  the  law: 

"At  least,  not  rotting  like  a  weed, 
But,  having  sown  some  generous  seed, 
Fruitful  of  further  thought  and  deed, 

"To  pass,  when  Life  her  light  withdraws, 
Not  void  of  righteous  self-applause, 
Nor  in  a  merely  selfish  cause— 

"In  some  good  cause,  not  in  mine  own, 
To  perish,  wept  for,  honor'd,  known, 
And  like  a  warrior  overthrown ; 

"Whose  eyes  are  dim  with  glorious  tears, 
When,  soil'd  with  noble  dust,  he  hears 
His  country's  war-song  thrill  his  ears: 

"Then  dying  of  a  mortal  stroke, 
What  time  the  foeman's  line  is  broke, 
And  all  the  war  is  roll'd  in  smoke." 

"Yea!"  said  the  voice,  "thy  dream  was  good, 
While  thou  abodest  in  the  bud. 
It  was  the  stirring  of  the  blood. 

"If  Nature  put  not  forth  her  power 
About  the  opening  of  the  flower, 
Who  is  it  that  could  live  an  hour? 

"  Then  comes  the  check,  the  change,  the  fal* 
Pain  rises  up,  old  pleasures  pall. 
There  is  one  remedy  for  all. 

"Yet  hadst  thou,  thro'  enduring  pain, 
Link'd  month  to  month  with  such  a  chain 
Of  knitted  purport,  all  were  vain. 

"Thou  hadst  not  between  death  and  birth 
Dissolved  the  riddle  of  the  earth. 
So  were  thy  labor  little-worth. 

"That  men  with  knowledge  merely  play'd, 

I  told  thee— hardly  nigher  made, 

Tho'  scaling  slow  from  grade  to  grade; 

"Much  less  this  dreamer,  deaf  and  blind, 
Named  man,  may  hope  some  truth  to  find, 
That  bears  relation  to  the  mind. 

"For  every  worm  beneath  the  moon 
Draws  different  threads,  and  late  and  soon 
Spins,  toiling  out  his  own  cocoon. 

"Cry,  faint  not:  either  Truth  is  born 
Beyond  the  polar  gleam  forlorn, 
Or  in  the  gateways  of  the  morn. 


66 


THE  TWO  VOICES. 


"  Cry,  faint  not,  climb :  the  summits  slope 
Beyond  the  furthest  flights  of  hope, 
Wrapt  in  dense  cloud  from  base  to  cope. 

"  Sometimes  a  little  corner  shines, 

As  over  rainy  mist  inclines 

A  gleaming  crag  with  belts  of  pines. 

"I  will  go  forward,  sayest  thou, 
I  shall  not  fail  to  find  her  now. 
Look  up,  the  fold  is  on  her  brow. 

"If  straight  thy  tract,  or  if  oblique, 

Thou  know'st  not.    Shadows  thou  dost  strike, 

Embracing  cloud,  Ixiou-like ; 

"And  owning  but  a  little  more 
Than  beasts,  abidest  lame  and  poor, 
Calling  thyself  a  little  lower 

"Than  angels.    Cease  to  wail  and  brawl  1 
Why  inch  by  inch  to  darkness  crawl  ? 
There  is  one  remedy  for  all." 

"  O  dull,  one-sided  voice,"  said  I, 
"Wilt  thou  make  everything  a  lie, 
To  flatter  me  that  I  may  die  ? 

"I  know  that  age  to  age  succeeds, 
Blowing  a  noise  of  tongues  and  deeds, 
A  dust  of  systems  and  of  creeds. 

•'I  cannot  hide  that  some  have  striven, 
Achieving  calm,  to  whom  was  given 
The  joy  that  mixes  man  with  Heaven : 

"Who,  rowing  hard  against  the  stream, 
Saw  distant  gates  of  Eden  gleam, 
And  did  not  dream  it  was  a  dream ; 

"  But  heard,  by  secret  transport  led, 
Ev'n  in  the  enamels  of  the  dead, 
The  murmur  of  the  fountain-head— 

"Which  did  accomplish  their  desire, 
Bore  and  forbore,  and  did  not  tire, 
Like  Stephen,  an  unquenched  fire. 

"  He  heeded  not  reviling  tones, 

Nor  sold  his  heart  to  idle  moans, 

Tho'  curs'd  and  scorn'd,  and  bruised  with  stones : 

"  But  looking  upward,  full  of  grace, 
He  pray'd,  and  from  a  happy  place 
God's  glory  smote  him  on  the  face." 

The  sullen  answer  slid  betwixt: 

"  Not  that  the  grounds  of  hope  were  flx'd, 

The  elements  were  kindlier  mix'd." 

I  said,  "I  toil  beneath  the  curse, 
But,  knowing  not  the  universe, 
I  fear  to  slide  from  bad  to  worse. 

"  And  that,  in  seeking  to  undo 
One  riddle,  and  to  find  the  true, 
I  knit  a  hundred  others  new : 

"  Or  that  this  anguish  fleeting  hence, 
Unmanacled  from  bonds  of  sense, 
Be  flx'd  and  froz'n  to  permanence: 

'Tor  I  go,  weak  from  suffering  here; 
Naked  I  go,  and  void  of  cheer : 
What  is  it  that  I  may  not  fear  f" 

"  Consider  well,"  the  voice  replied, 

"  His  face,  that  two  hours  since  hath  died ; 

Wilt  thou  find  passion,  pain,  or  pride? 


"Will  he  obey  when  one  commands* 
Or  answer  should  one  press  his  hands  1 
He  answers  not,  nor  understands. 

"His  palms  are  folded  on  his  breast: 
There  is  no  other  thing  express'd 
But  long  disquiet  merged  in  rest. 

"His  lips  are  very  mild  and  meek: 
Tho'  one  should  smite  him  on  the  cheek, 
And  on  the  mouth,  he  will  not  speak. 

"  His  little  daughter,  whose  sweet  face 
He  kiss'd,  taking  his  last  embrace, 
Becomes  dishonor  to  her  race— 

"His  sons  grow  up  that  bear  his  name, 
Some  grow  to  honor,  some  to  shame, — 
But  he  is  chill  to  praise  or  blame. 

"  He  will  not  hear  the  north-wind  rave, 
Nor,  moaning,  household  shelter  crave 
From  winter  rains  that  beat  his  grave. 

"High  up  the  vapors  fold  and  swim: 
About  him  broods  the  twilight  dim: 
The  place  he  knew  forgetteth  him." 

"If  all  be  dark,  vague  voice,"  I  said, 
"These  things  are  wrapt  in  doubt  and  dread, 
Nor  canst  thou  show  the  dead  are  dead. 

"The  sap  dries  up:  the  plant  declines. 

A  deeper  tale  my  heart  divines. 

Know  I  not  Death?  the  outward  signs? 

"I  found  him  when  my  years  were  few; 
A  shadow  on  the  graves  I  knew, 
And  darkness  in  the  village  yew. 

"From  grave  to  grave  the  shadow  crept: 
In  her  still  place  the  morning  wept: 
Touch'd  by  his  feet  the  daisy  slept. 

"The  simple  senses  crown 'd  his  head: 
'  Omega !  thou  art  Lord,'  they  said, 
'We  find  no  motion  in  the  dead.' 

"  Why,  if  man  rot  in  dreamless  ease, 
Should  that  plain  fact,  as  taught  by  these, 
Not  make  him  sure  that  he  shall  cease? 

"Who  forged  that  other  influence, 

That  heat  of  inward  evidence, 

By  which  he  doubts  against  the  sense? 

"He  owns  the  fatal  gift  of  eyes, 
That  read  his  spirit  blindly  wise, 
Not  simple  as  a  thing  that  dies. 

"Here  sits  he  shaping  wings  to  fly: 
His  heart  forebodes  a  mystery: 
He  names  the  name  Eternity. 

"  That  type  of  Perfect  in  his  mind 
In  Nature  can  he  nowhere  find. 
He  sows  himself  on  every  wind. 

"He  seems  to  hear  a  Heavenly  Friend, 
And  thro'  thick  veils  to  apprehend 
A  labor  working  to  an  end. 

"The  end  and  the  beginning  vex 
His  reason :  many  things  perplex, 
With  motions,  checks,  and  counter-checks. 

"He  knows  a  baseness  in  his  blood 

At  such  strange  war  with  something  good, 

He  may  not  do  the  thing  he  would. 


THE  TWO  VOICES. 


67 


"  I  might  forget  my  weaker  lot ; 
For  is  not  our  first  year  forgot  1 
The  haunts  of  memory  echo  not. 

"  And  men,  whose  reason  long  was  blind, 
From  cells  of  madness  uucouflned, 
Oft  lose  whole  years  of  darker  mind. 

"Much  more,  if  first  I  floated  free, 
As  naked  essence,  most  I  be 
Incompetent  of  memory: 

"  For  memory  dealing  but  with  time, 
And  he  with  matter,  could  she  climb 
Beyond  her  own  material  prime  1 

"Moreover,  something  is  or  seems, 
That  touches  me  with  mystic  gleams, 
Like  glimpses  of  forgotten  dreams— 

"Of  something  felt,  like  something  here; 
Of  something  done,  I  know  not  where; 
Such  as  no  language  may  declare.' 

The  still  voice  laugh'd.    "I  talk,"  said  he, 
"  Not  with  thy  dreams.    Suffice  it  thee 
Thy  pain  is  a  reality." 

"But  thou,"  said  I,  "hast  miss'd  thy  maiv. 
Who  sotight'st  to  wreck  my  mortal  ark, 
By  making  all  the  horizon  dark. 

"Why  not  set  forth,  if  I  should  do 
This  rashness,  that  which  might  ensue 
With  this  old  soul  in  organs  new? 

"  Whatever  crazy  sorrow  saith, 

No  life  that  breathes  with  human  breath 

Has  ever  truly  long'd  for  death. 

"  'T  is  life,  whereof  our  nerves  are  scant, 

0  life,  not  death,  for  which  we  pant; 
More  life,  and  fuller,  that  I  want." 

1  ceased,  and  sat  as  one  forlorn. 
Then  said  the  voice,  in  quiet  scorn: 
"Behold,  it  is  the  Sabbath  morn." 

And  I  arose,  and  1  released 

The  casement,  and  the  light  increased 

With  freshness  in  the  dawning  east. 

Like  soften'd  airs  that  blowing  steal, 
When  meres  begin  to  uncongeal, 
The  sweet  church  bells  began  to  peal. 

On  to  God's  house  the  people  prest: 
Passing  the  place  where  each  must  rest, 
Each  enter'd  like  a  welcome  guest. 

One  walk'd  between  his  wife  and  child, 
With  measur'd  footfall  firm  and  mild, 
And  now  and  then  he  gravely  smiled. 

The  prudent  partner  of  his  blood 
Lean'd  on  him,  faithful,  gentle,  good, 
Wearing  the  rose  of  womanhood. 

And  in  their  double  love  secure, 
The  little  maiden  walk'd  demnre, 
Pacing  with  downward  eyelids  pure. 

These  three  made  unity  so  sweet, 
My  frozen  heart  began  to  beat, 
Remembering  its  ancient  heat, 

I  blest  them,  and  they  wander'd  on: 
I  spoke,  but  answer  came  there  none: 
The  dull  and  bitter  voice  was  gone. 

A  second  voice  was  at  mine  ear, 

A  little  whisper  silver-clear, 

A  murmur,  "Be  of  better  cheer." 


"Heaven  opens  inward,  chasms  yawn, 
Vast  images  in  glimmering  dawn, 
Half-shown,  are  broken  and  withdrawn. 

"Ah!  sure  within  him  and  without, 
Could  his  dark  wisdom  find  it  out, 
There  must  be  answer  to  his  doubt. 

"But  thou  canst  answer  not  again. 
With  thine  own  weapon  art  thou  slain, 
Or  thou  wilt  answer  but  in  vain. 

"  The  doubt  would  rest,  I  dare  not  solve. 
In  the  same  circle  we  revolve. 
Assurance  only  breeds  resolve." 

As  when  a  billow,  blown  against, 

Falls  back,  the  voice  with  which  I  fenced 

A  little  ceased,  but  recommenced : 

"Where  wert  thou  when  thy  father  play'd 
In  his  free  field,  and  pastime  made, 
A  merry  boy  in  sun  and  shade? 

"A  merry  boy  they  called  him  then- 
He  sat  upon  the  knees  of  men 
In  days  that  never  come  again. 

"  Before  the  little  ducts  began 

To  feed  thy  bones  with  lime,  and  ran 

Their  course,  till  thou  wert  also  man : 

"  Who  took  a  wife,  who  rear'd  his  race, 
Whose  wrinkles  gather'd  on  his  face, 
Whose  troubles  number  with  his  days: 

"  A  life  of  nothings,  nothing-worth. 
From  that  first  nothing  ere  his  birth 
To  that  last  nothing  under  earth !" 

"These  words,"  I  said,  "are  like  the  rest, 
No  certain  clearness,  but  at  best 
A  vague  suspicion  of  the  breast : 

"But  if  I  grant,  thou  might'st  defend 
The  thesis  which  thy  words  intend — 
That  to  begin  implies  to  end; 

"Yet  how  should  I  for  certain  hold, 
Because  my  memory  is  so  cold, 
That  I  first  was  in  human  mould  ? 

"  I  cannot  make  this  matter  plain, 
But  I  would  shoot,  howe'er  in  vain, 
A  random  arrow  from  the  brain. 

"It  may  be  that  no  life  is  found, 
Which  only  to  one  engine  bound 
Falls  off,  but  cycles  always  round. 

"As  old  mythologies  relate, 

Some  draught  of  Lethe  might  await 

The  slipping  thro'  from  state  to  state. 

"As  here  we  find  in  trances,  men 
Forget  the  dream  that  happens  then, 
Until  they  fall  in  trance  again. 

"  So  might  we,  if  our  state  were  such 

As  one  before,  remember  much, 

For  those  two  likes  might  meet  and  touch. 

"  But,  if  I  lapsed  from  nobler  place, 
Some  legend  of  a  fallen  race 
Alone  might  hint  of  my  disgrace; 

"  Some  vague  emotion  of  delight 

In  gating  up  an  Alpine  height, 

Some  yearning  toward  the  lamps  of  night 

"  Or  if  thro'  lower  lives  1  came— 
Tho'  all  experience  past  became 
Consolidate  in  mind  and  frame — 


68 


THE  DAY-DREAM. 


As  from  some  blissful  neighborhood, 

A  notice  faintly  understood, 

"I  see  the  end,  and  know  the  good." 

A  little  hint  to  solace  woe, 

A  hint,  a  whisper  breathing  low, 

"I  may  not  speak  of  what  I  know." 

Like  an  ^Eolian  harp  that  wakes 

No  certain  air,  but  overtakes 

Far  thought  with  music  that  it  makes: 

,  Such  seem'd  the  whisper  at  my  side : 
"What  is  it  thou  knowest,  sweet  voice?"  I  cried. 
"A  hidden  hope,"  the  voice  replied: 

So  heavenly-toned,  that  in  that  hour 
From  out  my  sullen  heart  a  power 
Broke,  like  the  rainbow  from  the  shower, 

To  feel,  altho'  no  tongue  can  prove, 
That  every  cloud,  that  spreads  above 
And  veileth  love,  itself  is  love. 

And  forth  into  the  fields  I  went, 
And  Nature's  living  motion  lent 
The  pulse  of  hope  to  discontent. 

I  wonder'd  at  the  bounteous  hours, 
The  slow  result  of  winter-showers: 
You  scarce  could  see  the  grass  for  flowers. 

I  wonder'd,  while  I  paced  along : 

The  woods  were  fill'd  so  full  with  song, 

There  seem'd  no  room  for  sense  of  wrong. 

So  variously  seem'd  all  things  wrought, 
I  marvell'd  how  the  mind  was  brought 
To  anchor  by  one  gloomy  thought; 

And  wherefore  rather  I  made  choice 
To  commune  with  that  barren  voice, 
Than  him  that  said,  "Rejoice!  rejoice!" 


THE  DAY-DREAM. 

PROLOGUE. 

O  LAPY  FLORA,  let  me  speak : 

A  pleasant  hour  has  past  away 
While,  dreaming  on  your  damask  cheek, 

The  dewy  sister-eyelids  lay. 
As  by  the  lattice  yon  reclined, 

I  went  thro'  many  wayward  moods 
To  see  yon  dreaming — and,  behind, 

A  summer  crisp  with  shining  woods. 
And  I  too  dream'd,  until  at  last 

Across  my  fancy,  brooding  warm, 
The  reflex  of  a  legend  past, 

And  loosely  settled  into  form. 
And  would  you  have  the  thought  I  had, 

And  see  the  vision  that  I  saw, 
Then  take  the  broidery-frame,  and  add 

A  crimson  to  the  quaint  Macaw, 
And  I  will  tell  it.    Turn  your  face, 

Nor  look  with  that  too-earnest  eye — 
The  rhymes  are  dazzled  from  their  place, 

And  order'd  words  asunder  fly. 

THE  SLEEPING  PALACE. 

1. 

The  varying  year  with  blade  and  sheaf 

Clothes  and  reclothes  the  happy  plains: 
Here  rests  the  sap  within  the  leaf, 

Here  stays  the  blood  along  the  veins. 
Faint  shadows,  vapors  lightly  cuiTd, 

Faint  murmurs  from  the  meadows  come, 
Like  hints  and  echoes  of  the  world 

To  spirits  folded  in  the  womb. 


2. 
Soft  lustre  bathes  the  range  of  urns 

On  every  slanting  terrace-lawn. 
The  fountain  to  his  place  returns, 

Deep  in  the  garden  lake  withdrawn. 
Here  droops  the  banner  on  the  tower, 

On  the  hall-hearths  the  festal  fires, 
The  peacock  in  his  laurel  bower,     ' 

The  parrot  in  his  gilded  wires. 

3. 

Roof -haunting  martins  warm  their  eggs: 

In  these,  in  those  the  life  is  stay'd, 
The  mantles  from  the  golden  pegs 

Droop  sleepily :  no  sound  is  made, 
Not  even  of  a  gnat  that  sings. 

More  like  a  picture  seemeth  all 
Than  those  old  portraits  of  old  kings, 

That  watch  the  sleepers  from  the  walL 


Here  sits  the  butler  with  a  flask 

Between  his  knees  half-drained ;  and  there 
The  wrinkled  steward  at  his  task, 

The  maid-of-houor  blooming  fair: 
The  page  has  caught  her  hand  in  his : 

Her  lips  are  sever'd  as  to  speak: 
His  own  are  pouted  to  a  kiss: 

The  blush  is  fix'd  upon  her  cheek. 

5. 
Till  all  the  hundred  summers  pass, 

The  beams,  that  through  the  oriel  shiue, 
Make  prisms  in  every  carven  glass, 

And  beaker  brimm'd  with  noble  wine. 
Each  baron  at  the  banquet  sleeps, 

Grave  faces  gather'd  in  a  ring. 
His  state  the  king  reposing  keeps. 

He  must  have  been  a  jovial  king. 

6. 
All  round  a  hedge  npshoots,  and  shows 

At  distance  like  a  little  wood; 
Thorns,  ivies,  woodbine,  mistletoes, 

And  grapes  with  bunches  red  as  blood; 
All  creeping  plants,  a  wall  of  green 

Close-matted,  bur  and  brake  and  brier, 
And  glimpsing  over  these,  jnst  seen, 

High  up  the  topmost  palace-spire. 

7. 
When  will  the  hundred  summers  die, 

And  thought  and  time  be  born  again, 
And  newer  knowledge,  drawing  nigh, 

Bring  truth  that  sways  the  soul  of  men? 
Here  all  things  in  their  place  remain, 

As  all  were  order'd,  ages  since. 
Come,  Care  and  Pleasure,  Hope  and  Pain, 

And  bring  the  fated  fairy  Prince. 

THE  SLEEPING  BEAUTY. 

1. 
Year  after  year  unto  her  feet, 

She  lying  on  her  couch  alone, 
Across  the  purpled  coverlet, 

The  maiden's  jet-black  hair  has  grown, 
On  either  side  her  tranced  form 

Forth  streaming  from  a  braid  of  peart 
The  slumbrous  light  is  rich  and  warm. 

And  moves  not  on  the  rounded  cnrL 

2. 
The  silk  star-broider'd  coverlid 

Unto  her  limbs  itself  doth  mould 
Languidly  ever;  and,  amid 

Her  full  black  ringlets  downward  roll'd, 


THE  DAY-DREAM. 


C!) 


Glows  forth  each  softly-shadowed  arm 
With  bracelets  of  the  diamond  bright: 

Her  constant  beauty  doth  inform 
Stillness  with  love,  and  day  with  light. 

3. 

She  sleeps:  her  breathings  are  not  heard 

In  palace  chambers  far  apart. 
The  fragrant  tresses  are  not  stirr'd 

That  lie  upon  her  charmed  heart. 
She  sleeps :  on  either  hand  upswells 

The  gold-fringed  pillow  lightly  prest: 
She  sleeps,  nor  dreams,  but  ever  dwells 

A  perfect  form  in  perfect  rest. 

THE   ARRIVAL. 

1. 
All  precious  things,  discover'd  late, 

To  those  that  seek  them  issue  forth ; 
For  love  in  sequel  works  with  fate, 

And  draws  the  veil  from  hidden  worth. 
He  travels  far  from  other  skies — 

His  mantle  glitters  on  the  rocks — 
A  fairy  Prince,  with  joyful  eyes, 

And  lighter-footed  than  the  fox. 

2. 

The  bodies  and  the  bones  of  those 

That  strove  in  other  days  to  pass, 
Are  wither'd  in  the  thorny  close, 

Or  scattered  blanching  on  the  grass. 
He  gazes  on  the  silent  dead, 

"They  perish'd  in  their  daring  deeds." 
This  proverb  flashes  thro'  his  head, 

"The  many  fail:  the  one  succeeds." 

3. 
He  comes,  scarce  Knowing  what  he  seeks : 

He  breaks  the  hedge :  he  enters  there : 
The  color  flies  into  his  cheeks: 

He  trusts  to  light  on  something  fair ; 
For  all  his  life  the  charm  did  talk 

About  his  path,  and  hover  near 
With  words  of  promise  in  his  walk, 

And  whisper'd  voices  at  his  ear. 

4. 
More  close  and  close  his  footsteps  wind ; 

The  Magic  Music  in  his  heart 
Beats  quick  and  quicker,  till  he  find 

The  quiet  chamber  far  apart. 
His  spirit  flutters  like  a  lark, 

He  stoops— to  kiss  her— on  his  knee. 
"Love,  if  thy  tresses  be  so  dark, 

How  dark  those  hidden  eyes  must  be  '" 

THE  REVIVAL. 

1. 
A  touch,  a  kiss !  the  charm  was  snapt. 

There  rose  a  noise  of  striking  clocks, 
And  feet  that  ran,  and  doors  that  clapt, 

And  barking  dogs,  and  crowing  cocks ; 
A  fuller  light  illumined  all, 

A  breeze  thro'  all  the  garden  swept, 
A  sudden  hubbub  shook  the  hall, 

And  sixty  feet  the  fountain  leapt. 

2. 
The  hedge  broke  in,  the  banner  blew, 

The  butler  drank,  the  steward  scrawl'd, 
The  fire  shot  up,  the  martin  flew, 

The  parrot  scream'd,  the  peacock  squall'd, 
The  maid  and  page  reuew'd  their  strife, 

The  palace  bang'd,  and  buzz'd,  and  claekt, 
&.nd  all  the  long-pent  stream  of  life 

Dash'd  downward  in  a  cataract. 


3. 
And  last  with  these  the  king  awoke, 

And  in  his  chair  himself  uprear'd, 
And  yawu'd,  and  rubb'd  his  face,  and  spoke, 

"By  holy  rood,  a  royal  beard.! 
How  say  you  ?  we  have  slept,  my  lords. 

My  beard  has  grown  into  my  lap." 
The  barons  swore,  with  many  words, 

'T  was  but  an  after-dinner's  nap. 


"  Pardy,"  return'd  the  king,  "  but  still 

My  joints  are  something  stiff  or  so. 
My  lord,  and  shall  we  pass  the  bill 

I  mention'd  half  an  hour  ago?" 
The  chancellor,  sedate  and  vain, 

In  courteous  words  return 'd  reply: 
But  dallied  with  his  golden  chain, 

And,  smiling,  put  the  question  by. 

THE  DEPARTURE. 

1. 
And  on  her  lover's  arm  she  leant, 

And  round  her  waist  she  felt  it  fold, 
And  far  across  the  hills  they  went 

In  that  new  world  which  is  the  old: 
Across  the  hills,  aud  far  away 

Beyond  their  utmost  purple  rim, 
And  deep  into  the  dying  day 

The  happy  princess  follow'd  him. 


"I'd  sleep  another  hundred  years, 

O  love,  for  such  another  kiss ;" 
"  O  wake  forever,  love,"  she  hears, 

"  O  love,  't  was  such  as  this  and  this-:> 
And  o'er  them  many  a  sliding  star, 

And  many  a  merry  wind  was  borne, 
And,  stream'd  thro'  many  a  golden  bar, 

The  twilight  melted  into  morn. 

3. 
"O  eyes  long  laid  in  happy  sleep!" 

"  O  happy  sleep,  that  lightly  fled  !" 
"  O  happy  kiss,  that  woke  thy  sleep !" 

"  O  love,  thy  kiss  would  wake  the  dead '" 
And  o'er  them  many  a  flowing  range 

Of  vapor  buoy'd  the  crescent-bark, 
And,  rapt  thro'  many  a  rosy  change, 

The  twilight  died  into  the  dark. 

4. 
"A  hundred  summers!  can  it  be? 

And  whither  goest  thou,  tell  me  where  ?" 
"  O  seek  my  father's  court  with  me. 

For  there  are  greater  wonders  there.1' 
And  o'er  the  hills,  and  far  away 

Beyond  their  utmost  purple  rim, 
Beyond  the  night,  across  the  day, 

Thro'  all  the  world  she  follow'd  him. 

MORAL. 
1. 

So,  Lady  Flora,  take  my  lay, 

And  if  you  find  no  moral  there, 
Go,  look  in  any  glass  and  say, 

What  moral  is  in  being  fair. 
O,  to  what  uses  shall  we  put 

The  wildweed  flower  that  simply  blows? 
And  is  there  any  moral  shut 

Within  the  bosom  of  the  rose  ? 


Bnt  any  man  that  walks  the  mend, 
In  bud  or  blade,  or  bloom,  may  find, 

According  as  his  humors  lead, 
A  meaning  suited  to  his  mind. 


70 


AMPHION. 


And  liberal  applications  lie 
In  Art  like  Nature,  dearest  friend ; 

So  't  were  to  cramp  its  use,  if  I 
Should  hook  it  to  some  useful  end. 

L'ENVOI. 
ft. 

Ton  shake  your  head.    A  random  string 

Your  finer  female  sense  offends. 
Well— were  it  not  a  pleasant  thing 

To  fall  asleep  with  all  one's  friends ; 
To  pass  with  all  our  social  ties 

To  silence  from  the  paths  of  men ; 
And  every  hundred  years  to  rise 

And  learn  the  world,  and  sleep  again ; 
To  sleep  thro'  terms  of  mighty  wars, 

And  wake  on  science  grown  to  more, 
On  secrets  of  the  brain,  the  stars, 

As  4wild  as  aught  of  fairy  lore ; 
And  all  that  else  the  years  will  show, 

The  Poet-forms  of  stronger  hours, 
The  vast  Republics  that  may  grow, 

The  Federations  and  the  Powers; 
Titanic  forces  taking  birth 
In  divers  seasons,  divers  climes ; 
For  we  are  Ancients  of  the  earth, 

And  in  the  morning  of  the  times. 

2. 

So  sleeping,  so  aroused  from  sleep 
Thro'  sunny  decades  new  and  strange, 

Or  gay  quinqnenniads  would  we  reap 
The  flower  and  quintessence  of  change. 

3. 

Ah,  yet  would  I — and  would  I  might ! 

So  much  your  eyes  my  fancy  take — 
Be  still  the  first  to  leap  to  light 

That  I  might  kiss  those  eyes  awake ! 
For,  am  I  right  or  am  I  wrong, 

To  choose  your  own  you  did  not  care ; 
Yon'd  have  my  moral  from  the  song, 

And  I  will  take  my  pleasure  tbere: 
And,  am  I  right  or  am  I  wrong, 

My  fancy,  ranging  thro'  and  thro', 
To  search  a  meaning  for  the  song, 

Perforce  will  still  revert  to  you; 
Nor  finds  a  closer  truth  than  this 

All-graceful  head,  so  richly  curl'd, 
And  evermore  a  costly  kiss 

The  prelude  to  some  brighter  world. 


For  since  the  time  when  Adam  first 

Embraced  his  Eve  in  happy  hour, 
And  every  bird  of  Eden  burst 

In  carol,  every  bud  to  flower, 
What  eyes,  like  thine,  have  waken'd  hopes  ? 

What  lips,  like  thine,  so  sweetly  joiu'd  ? 
Where  on  the  double  rosebud  droops 

The  fulness  of  the  pensive  mind ; 
Which  all  too  dearly  self-involved, 

Yet  sleeps  a  dreamless  sleep  to  me ; 
A  sleep  by  kisses  nndissolved, 

That  lets  thee  neither  hear  nor  see: 
Bnt  break  it.    In  the  name  of  wife, 

And  in  the  rights  that  name  may  give, 
Are  clasp'd  the  moral  of  thy  life, 

And  that  for  which  I  care  to  live. 

EPILOGUE. 

So,  Lady  Flora,  take  my  lay, 
And,  if  you  find  a  meaning  there, 

O  whisper  to  your  glass,  and  say, 
"What  wonder,  if  he  thinks  me  fair?" 

What  wonder  I  was  all  unwise, 
To  shape  the  song  for  your  delight, 


Like  long-tail'd  birds  of  Paradise, 
That  float  thro'  Heaven,  and  cannot  light? 

Or  old-world  trains,  upheld  at  court 
By  Cupid-boys  of  blooming  hue  — 

But  take  it  — earnest  wed  with  sport, 
And  either  sacred  unto  you. 


AMPHION. 

MY  father  left  a  park  to  me, 

But  it  is  wild  and  barren, 
A  garden  too  with  scarce  a  tree 

And  waster  than  a  warren : 
Yet  say  the  neighbors  when  they  call, 

It  is  not  bad  but  good  land, 
And  in  it  is  the  germ  of  all 

That  grows  within  the  woodland. 

O  had  I  lived  when  song  was  great 

In  days  of  old  Amphion, 
And  ta'en  my  fiddle  to  the  gate, 

Nor  cared  for  seed  or  scion  ! 
And  had  I  lived  when  song  was  great, 

And  legs  of  trees  were  limber, 
And  ta'en  my  fiddle  to  the  gate, 

And  fiddled  in  the  timber! 

"T  is  said  he  had  a  tuneful  tongue, 

Such  happy  intonation, 
Wherever  he  sat  down  and  sung 

He  left  a  small  plantation ; 
Wherever  in  a  lonely  grove 

He  set  up  his  forlorn  pipes, 
The  gouty  oak  began  to  move, 

And  flounder  into  hornpipes. 

The  mountain  stirr'd  its  bushy  crown, 

And,  as  tradition  teaches, 
Young  ashes  pirouetted  down 

Coquetting  with  young  beeches; 
And  briony-vine  and  ivy-wreath 

Ran  forward  to  his  rhyming, 
And  from  the  valleys  underneath 

Came  little  copses  climbing. 

The  birch-tree  swang  her  fragrant  hair, 

The  bramble  cast  her  berry, 
The  gin  within  the  juniper 

Began  to  make  him  merry, 
The  poplars,  in  long  order  due, 

With  cypress  promenaded, 
The  shock-head  willows  two  and  two 

By  rivers  gallopaded. 

Came  wet-shot  alder  from  the  wave, 

Came  yews,  a  dismal  coterie; 
Each  pluck'd  his  one  foot  from  the  grave, 

Poussetting  with  a  sloe-tree: 
Old  elms  came  breaking  from  the  vine, 

The  vine  stream'd  out  to  follow, 
And,  sweating  rosin,  plnmp'd  the  pine 

From  many  a  cloudy  hollow. 

And  was  n't  it  a  sight  to  see, 

When,  ere  his  song  was  ended, 
Like  some  great  landslip,  tree  by  tree, 

The  country-side  descended ; 
And  shepherds  from  the  mountain-eaves 

Look'd  down,  half-pleased,  half'-frighten'd. 
As  dash'd  about  the  drunken  leaves 

The  random  sunshine  lighten'd.1 

O,  nature  first  was  fresh  to  men, 
And  wanton  without  measure; 

So  youthful  and  so  flexile  then, 
You  moved  her  at  your  pleasure. 


LYRICAL  MONOLOGUE. 


71 


Twang  out,  my  fiddle  !  shake  the  twigs ! 

And  make  her  dauce  attendance  ; 
Blow,  flute,  and  stir  the  stiff-set  sprigs, 

And  scirrhous  roots  and  tendons. 

"T  is  vain  !  in  such  a  brassy  age 

I  could  not  move  a  thistle  ; 
The  very  sparrows  in  the  hedge 

Scarce  answer  to  my  whistle ; 
Or  at  the  most,  when  three-parts-sick 

With  strumming  and  with  scraping, 
A  jackass  heehaws  from  the  rick, 

The  passive  oxen  gaping. 

But  what  is  that  I  hear?  a  sound 

Like  sleepy  counsel  pleading: 
O  Lord ! — 't  is  in  my  neighbor's  ground, 

The  modern  Muses  reading. 
They  read  Botanic  Treatises, 

And  Works  on  Gardening  through  there, 
And  Methods  of  transplanting  trees, 

To  look  as  if  they  grew  there. 

The  wither'd  Misses !  how  they  prose 

O'er  books  of  travell'd  seamen, 
And  show  you  slips  of  all  that  grows 

From  England  to  Van  Diemen. 
They  read  in  arbors  clipt  and  cut, 

And  alleys,  faded  places, 
By  squares  of  tropic  summer  shut 

And  warm'd  in  crystal  cases. 

But  these,  tho'  fed  with  careful  dirt, 

Are  neither  green  nor  sappy ; 
Half-conscious  of  the  garden-squirt, 

The  spindlings  look  unhappy. 
Better  to  me  the  meanest  weed 

That  blows  upon  its  mountain, 
The  vilest  herb  that  runs  to  seed 

Beside  its  native  fountain. 

And  I  must  work  thro'  months  of  toil, 

And  years  of  cultivation, 
Upon  my  proper  patch  of  soil 

To  grow  my  own  plantation. 
I'll  take  the  showers  as  they  fall, 

I  will  not  vex  my  bosom: 
Enough  if  at  the  end  of  all 

A  little  garden  blossom. 


WILL  WATERPROOF'S  LYRICAL   MON- 
OLOGUE. 

MADE   AT   THE   COCK. 

0  PLUMP  head-waiter  at  The  Cock, 
To  which  I  most  resort, 

How  goes  the  time  ?     'T  is  five  o'clock. 

Go  fetch  a  pint  of  port  : 
But  let  it  not  be  such  as  that 

You  set  before  chance-comers, 
But  such  whose  father-grape  grew  fat 

On  Lusitanian  summers. 

No  vain  libation  to  the  Muse, 

But  may  she  still  be  kind, 
And  whisper  lovely  words,  and  use 

Her  influence  on  the  mind, 
To  make  me  write  my  random  rhymes, 

Ere  they  be  half-forgotten ; 
Nor  add  and  alter,  many  times, 

Till  all  be  ripe  and  rotten. 

1  pledge  her,  and  she  comes  and  dips 
Her  laurel  in  the  wine, 

And  lays  it  thrice  upon  my  lips, 
These  favor'd  lips  of  mine ; 


Until  the  charm  have  power  to  make 
New  lifeblood  warm  the  bosom, 

And  barren  commonplaces  break 
In  full  and  kindly  blossom. 

I  pledge  her  silent  at  the  board; 

Her  gradual  fingers  steal 
And  touch  upon  the  master-chord 

Of  all  I  felt  and  feel. 
Old  wishes,  ghosts  of  broken  plans, 

And  phantom  hopes  assemble ; 
And  that  child's  heart  within  the  man's 

Begins  to  move  and  tremble. 

Thro*  many  an  hour  of  summer  suns 

By  many  pleasant  ways, 
Against  its  fountain  upward  runs 

The  current  of  my  days ; 
I  kiss  the  lips  I  once  have  kiss'd; 

The  gas-light  wavers  dimmer; 
And  softly,  thro'  a  vinous  mist, 

My  college  friendships  glimmer. 

I  grow  in  worth,  and  wit,  and  sense, 

Unboding  critic-pen, 
Or  that  eternal  want  of  pence, 

Which  vexes  public  men, 
Who  hold  their  hands  to  all,  and  cry 

For  that  which  all  deny  them, — 
Who  sweep  the  crossings,  wet  or  dry, 

And  all  the  world  go  by  them. 

Ah  yet,  tho'  all  the  world  forsake, 

Tho'  fortune  clip  my  wings, 
I  will  not  cramp  my  heart,  nor  take 

Half-views  of  men  and  things. 
Let  Whig  and  Tory  stir  their  blood; 

There  must  be  stormy  weather; 
But  for  some  true  result  of  good 

All  parties  work  together. 

Let  there  be  thistles,  there  are  grapes  5 

If  old  things,  there  are  new ; 
Ten  thousand  broken  lights  and  shapes, 

Yet  glimpses  of  the  true. 
Let  raffs  be  rife  in  prose  and  rhyme. 

We  lack  not  rhymes  and  reasons, 
As  on  this  whirligig  of  Time 

We  circle  with  the  seasons. 

This  earth  is  rich  in  man  and  maid; 

With  fair  horizons  bound ! 
This  whole  wide  earth  of  light  and  shade 

Comes  out,  a  perfect  round. 
High  over  roaring  Temple-bar, 

And,  set  in  Heaven's  third  story, 
I  look  at  all  things  as  they  are, 

But  thro'  a  kind  of  glory. 


Head-waiter,  honor'd  by  the  guest 

Half-mused,  or  reeling-ripe, 
The  pint,  you  brought  me,  was  the  best 

That  ever  came  from  pipe. 
But  tho'  the  port  surpasses  praise, 

My  nerves  have  dealt  with  stiffer. 
Is  there  some  magic  in  the  place? 

Or  do  my  peptics  differ? 

For  since  I  came  to  live  and  learn, 

No  pint  of  white  or  red 
Had  ever  half  the  power  to  turn 

This  wheel  within  my  head, 
Which  bears  a  season'd  brain  about, 

Unsubject  to  confusion, 
Tho'  soak'd  and  saturate,  out  and  out, 

Thro'  every  convolution. 

For  I  am  of  a  numerous  house, 
With  many  kinsmen  gay, 


LYRICAL  MONOLOGUE. 


Where  long  and  largely  we  carouse, 

As  who  shall  say  me  nay : 
Each  month,  a  birthday  coming  on, 

We  drink  defying  trouble, 
Or  sometimes  two  would  meet  in  one, 

And  then  we  drank  it  double , 

Whether  the  vintage,  yet  unkept, 

Had  relish  fiery-new, 
Or,  elbow-deep  in  sawdust,  slept, 

As  old  as  Waterloo; 
Or  stow'd  (when  classic  Canning  died) 

In  musty  bins  and  chambers, 
Had  cast  upon  its  crusty  side 

The  gloom  of  ten  Decembers. 

The  Muse,  the  jolly  Muse,  it  is ! 

She  answer'd  to  my  call, 
She  changes  with  that  mood  or  this, 

Is  all-in-all  to  all: 
She  lit  the  spark  within  my  throat, 

To  make  my  blood  run  quicker, 
Used  all  her  fiery  will,  and  emote 

Her  life  into  the  liquor. 

And  hence  this  halo  lives  about 

The  waiter's  hands,  that  reach 
To  each  his  perfect  pint  of  stout, 

His  proper  chop  to  each. 
He  looks  not  like  the  common  breed 

That  with'  the  napkin  dally ; 
I  think  he  came  like  Ganymede, 

From  some  delightful  valley. 

The  Cock  was  of  a  larger  egg 

Than  modern  poultry  drop, 
Stept  forward  on  a  firmer  leg, 

And  cramm'd  a  plumper  crop; 
Upon  an  ampler  dunghill  trod, 

Crow'd  lustier  late  and  early, 
Sipt  wine  from  silver,  praising  God, 

And  raked  m  golden  barley. 

A  private  life  was  all  his  joy, 

Till  in  a  court  he  saw 
A  something-pottle-bodied  boy 

That  knuckled  at  the  taw: 
He  stoop'd  and  clutch'd  him,  fair  and  good, 

Flew  over  roof  and  casement: 
His  brothers  of  the  weather  stood 

Stock-still  for  sheer  amazement. 

But  he,  by  farmstead,  thorpe,  and  spire, 

And  follow'd  with  acclaims, 
A  sign  to  many  a  staring  shire, 

Came  crowing  over  Thames. 
Right  down  by  smoky  Paul's  they  jpore, 

Till,  where  the  street  grows  straiter, 
One  flx'd  forever  at  the  door, 

And  one  became  head-waiter. 


But  whither  would  my  fancy  goT 

How  out  of  place  she  makes 
The  violet  of  a  legend  blow 

Among  the  chops  and  steaks ! 
'Tis  but  a  steward  of  the  can, 

One  shade  more  plump  than  common ; 
As  just  and  mere  a  serving-man 

As  any,  born  of  woman. 

I  ranged  too  high :  what  draws  me  down 

Into  the  common  day? 
Is  it  the  weight  of  that  half-crown, 

Which  I  shall  have  to  pay  ? 
For,  something  duller  than  at  first, 

Nor  wholly  comfortable, 
I  sit  (my  empty  glass  reversed), 

And  thrumming  on  the  table: 


Half  fearful  that,  with  self  at  strife, 

I  take  myself  to  task; 
Lest  of  the  fulness  of  my  life 

I  leave  an  empty  flask: 
For  I  had  hop«,  by  something  rare, 

To  prove  myself  a  poet ; 
But,  while  I  plan  and  plan,  my  hair 

Is  gray  before  I  know  it. 

So  fares  it  since  the  years  began, 

Till  they  be  gather'd  up ; 
The  truth,  that  flies  the  flowing  can, 

Will  haunt  the  vacant  cup : 
And  others'  follies  teach  us  not, 

Nor  much  their  wisdom  teaches ; 
And  most,  of  sterling  worth,  is  what 

Our  own  experience  preaches. 

Ah,  let  the  rusty  theme  alone  ! 

We  know  not  what  we  know. 
But  for  my  pleasant  hour,  'tis  gone, 

'Tis  gone,  and  let  it  go. 
'Tis  gone:  a  thousand  such  have  slipt 

Away  from  my  embraces, 
And  fall'n  into  the  dusty  crypt 

Of  darken'd  forms  and  faces. 

Go,  therefore,  thou  !  thy  betters  went 

Long  since,  and  came  no  more : 
With  peals  of  genial  clamor  sent 

From  many  a  tavern-door, 
With  twisted  quirks  and  happy  hits. 

From  misty  men  of  letters ; 
The  tavern-hours  of  mighty  wits, — 

Thine  elders  and  thy  betters. 

Hours,  when  the  Poet's  words  and  looks 

Had  yet  their  native  glow : 
Not  yet  the  fear  of  little  books 

Had  made  him  talk  for  show; 
But,  all  his  vast  heart  sherris-warm'd 

He  flash'd  his  random  speeches ; 
Ere  days,  that  deal  in  ana,  swarm'd 

His  literary  leeches. 

So  mix  forever  with  the  past, 

Like  all  good  things  on  earth ! 
For  should  I  prize  thee,  conld'st  thon  last. 

At  half  thy  real  worth? 
I  hold  it  good,  good  things  should  pass; 

With  time  I  will  not  quarrel: 
It  is  but  yonder  empty  glass 

That  makes  me  maudlin-moral. 


Head-wditer  of  the  chop-house  here, 

To  which  I  most  resort, 
I  too  must  part :  I  hold  thee  dear 

For  this  good  pint  of  port. 
For  this,  thou  shall  from  all  things  suck 

Marrow  of  mirth  and  laughter  : 
And,  wheresoe'er  thou  move,  good  luck 

Shall  fling  her  old  shoe  after. 

But  thon  wilt  never  move  from  hence, 

The  sphere  thy  fate  allots: 
Thy  latter  days  increased  with  pence 

Go  down  among  the  pots : 
Thou  battenest  by  the  greasy  gleam 

In  haunts  of  hungry  sinners, 
Old  boxes,  larded  with  the  steam 

Of  thirty  thousand  dinners. 

We  fret,  we  fume,  would  shift  our  skins. 

Would  quarrel  with  our  lot: 
Thy  care  is,  under  polish'd  tins, 

To  serve  the  hot-and-hot; 
To  come  and  go,  and  come  again, 

Returning  like  the  pewit, 
And  watch'd  by  silent  gentlemen, 

That  trifle  with  the  cruet. 


TO 


-.—LADY  CLARE. 


73 


Live  long,  ere  from  thy  topmost  head 

The  thick-set  hazel  dies ; 
Long,  ere  the  hateful  crow  shall  tread 

The  corners  of  thine  eyes: 
Live  long,  nor  feel  in  head  or  chest 

Our  changeful  equinoxes, 
Till  mellow  Death,  like  some  late  guest, 

Shall  call  thee  from  the  boxes. 

But  when  he  calls,  and  thou  shalt  cease 

To  pace  the  gritted  floor, 
And,  laying  down  an  unctuous  lease 

Of  life,  shalt  earn  no  more : 
>"o  carved  cross-bones,  the  types  of  Death, 

Shall  show  thee  past  to  Heaven : 
But  carved  cross-pipes,  and,  underneath, 

A  pint-pot,  neatly  graven. 


TO 


AFTER    READING   A    LIFE    AND    LETTERS. 

"  Cursed  be  he  that  nioves  my  bones." 

Shakespeare's  Efitaph. 

You  might  have  won  the  Poet's  name, 
If  such  be  worth  the  winning  now, 
And  gain'd  a  laurel  for  your  brow 

Of  sounder  leaf  than  I  can  claim ; 

But  you  have  made  the  wiser  choice, 
A  life  that  moves  to  gracious  ends 
Thro'  troops  of  unrecording  friends, 

A  deedful  life,  a  silent  voice: 

And  yon  have  miss'd  the  irreverent  doom 
Of  those  that  wear  the  Poet's  crown : 
Hereafter,  neither  knave  nor  clown 

Shall  hold  their  orgies  at  your  tomb. 

For  now  the  Poet  cannot  die 
Nor  leave  his  music  as  of  old, 
But  round  him  ere  he  scarce  be  cold 

Begins  the  scandal  and  the  cry: 

"Proclaim  the  faults  he  would  not  show: 
Break  lock  and  seal:  betray  the  trust: 
Keep  nothing  sacred :  't  is  but  just 

The  many-headed  beast  should  know." 

Ah  shameless !  for  he  did  but  sing 
A  song  that  pleased  us  from  its  worth ; 
No  public  life  was  his  on  earth, 

No  blazon'd  statesman  he,  nor  king. 

Ue  gave  the  people  of  his  best: 
His  worst  he  kept,  his  best  he  gave. 
My  Shakespeare's  curse  on  clown  and  knave 

Who  will  not  let  his  ashes  rest ! 

Who  make  it  seem  more  sweet  to  be 
The  little  life  of  bank  and  brier, 
The  bird  that  pipes  his  lone  desire 

And  dies  unheard  within  his  tree, 

Than  he  that  warbles  long  and  loud 
Arid  drops  at  Glory's  temple-gates, 
For  whom  the  carrion  vulture  waits 

To  tear  his  heart  before  the  crowd ! 


LADY  CLARE. 

IT  was  the  time  when  lilies  blow, 
And  clouds  are  highest  up  in  air, 

Lord  Ronald  brought  a  lily-white  doe 
To  give  his  cousin,  Lady  Clare. 

I  trow  they  did  not  pnrt  in  scorn : 
Lovers  long-betroth'd  were  they: 


They  two  will  wed  the  morrow  morn: 
God's  blessing  on  the  day! 

"He  does  not  love  me  for  my  birth, 
Nor  for  my  lands  so  broad  and  fair: 

He  loves  me  for  my  own  true  worth, 
And  that  is  well,"  said  Lady  Clare. 

In  there  came  old  Alice  the  nurse, 
Said,  "Who  was  this  that  went  from  theer" 

"It  was  my  cousin,"  said  Lady  Clare 
"To-morrow  he  weds  with  me." 

"  O  God  be  thank'd !"  said  Alice  the  nurse, 
"That  all  comes  round  so  just  and  fair: 

Lord  Ronald  is  heir  of  all  your  lands, 
And  you  are  not  the  Lady  Clare." 

"  Are  ye  out  of  your  mind,  my  nurse,  my  nurse  t* 
Said  Lady  Clare,  "  that  ye  speak  so  wild  ?" 

"  As  God  's  above,"  said  Alice  the  nurse, 
"I  speak  the  truth  :  you  are  my  child. 

"The  old  Earl's  daughter  died  at  my  breast; 

I  speak  the  truth,  as  I  live  by  bread ! 
I  buried  her  like  my  own  sweet  child. 

And  put  my  child  in  her  stead." 

"Falsely,  falsely  have  ye  done, 
O  mother,"  she  said,  "  if  this  be  true, 

To  keep  the  best  man  under  the  smi 
So  many  years  from  his  due." 

"Nay  now,  my  child,"  said  Alice  the  nurse, 
"  But  keep  the  secret  for  your  life, 

And  all  you  have  will  be  Lord  Ronald's, 
When  you  are  man  and  wife." 

"  If  I'm  a  beggar  born,"  she  said, 
"  I  will  speak  out,  for  I  dare  not  lie. 

Pull  off,  pull  off,  the  broach  of  gold, 
And  fling  the  diamond  necklace  by." 

"Nay  now,  my  child,"  said  Alice  the  nurse, 

"But  keep  the  secret  all  ye  can." 
She  said  "Not  so:  but  I  will  know 

If  there  be  any  faith  in  man." 

"Nay  now,  what  faith?"  said  Alice  the  nurse, 
"  The  man  will  cleave  unto  his  right." 

"  And  he  shall  have  it,"  the  lady  replied, 
"Tho'  I  should  die  to-night." 

"Yet  give  one  kiss  to  your  mother  dear! 

Alas,  my  child,  I  sinn'd  for  thee." 
"  O  mother,  mother,  mother,"  she  said, 

"  So  strange  it  seems  to  me. 

"Yet  here's  a  kiss  for  my  mother  dear, 

My  mother  dear,  if  this  be  so, 
And  lay  your  hand  upon  my  head, 

And  bless  me,  mother,  ere  I  go." 

She  clad  herself  in  a  russet  gown, 

She  was  no  longer  Lady  Clare : 
She  went  by  dale,  and  she  went  by  down. 

With  a  single  rose  in  her  hair. 

The  lily-white  doe  Lord  Ronald  had  brought 

Leapt  up  from  where  she  lay, 
Dropt  her  head  in  the  maiden's  hand, 

And  followed  her  all  the  way. 

Down  stept  Lord  Ronald  from  his  tower: 
"  O  Lady  Clare,  yon  shame  your  worth ! 

Why  come  you  drest  like  a  village  maid, 
That  are  the  flower  of  the  earth  ?" 

"  If  I  come  drest  like  a  village  maid, 

I  am  but  as  my  fortunes  are : 
I  am  a  beggar  born,"  she  said, 

"And  not  the  Ladv  Clare." 


74 


ST.  AGNES. 


"  Play  me  no  tricks,"  said  Lord  Ronald, 
"For  I  am  yours  in  word  and  in  deed, 

Play  me  no  tricks,"  said  Lord  Ronald, 
"Your  riddle  is  hard  to  read." 

O  and  proudly  stood  she  up ! 

Her  heart  within  her  did  not  fail : 
She  look'd  into  Lord  Ronald's  eyes, 

And  told  him  all  her  nurse's  tale. 

He  laugh'd  a  laugh  of  merry  scorn : 
He  turn'd,  and  kiss'd  her  where  she  stood: 

"  If  you  are  not  the  heiress  born, 
And  I,"  said  he,  "  the  next  in  blood — 

"If  you  are  not  the  heiress  born, 
And  I,"  said  he,  "  the  lawful  heir, 

We  two  will  wed  to-morrow  morn, 
And  you  shall  still  be  Lady  Clare." 


ST.  AGNES. 

DEEP  on  the  convent-roof  the  snows 

Are  sparkling  to  the  moon: 
My  breath  to  heaven  like  vapor  goes: 

May  my  soul  follow  soon ! 
The  shadows  of  the  convent-towers 

Slant  down  the  snowy  sward, 
Still  creeping  with  the  creeping  hours 

That  lead  me  to  my  Lord : 


Make  Thou  my  spirit  pure  and  clear 

As  are  the  frosty  skies, 
Or  this  first  snowdrop  of  the  year 

That  in  my  bosom  lies. 

As  thes.e  white  robes  are  soiled  and  dark. 

To  yonder  shining  ground ; 
As  this  pale  taper's  earthly  spark, 

To  yonder  argent  round  ; 
So  shows  my  soul  before  the  Lamb, 

My  spirit  before  Thee  ; 
So  in  mine  earthly  house  I  am, 

To  that  I  hope  to  be. 
Break  up  the  heavens,  O  Lord !  and  lur, 

Thro'  all  yon  starlight  keen, 
Draw  me,  thy  bride,  a  glittering  star, 

In  raiment  white  and  clean. 

He  lifts  me  to  the  golden  doors ; 

The  flashes  come  and  go; 
All  heaven  bursts  her  starry  floors, 

And  strews  her  lights  below, 
And  deepens  on  and  up!  the  gates 

Roll  back,  and  far  within 
For  me  the  Heavenly  Bridegroom  waits, 

To  make  me  pure  of  sin. 
The  sabbaths  of  Eternity, 

One  sabbath  deep  and  wide — 
A  light  upon  the  shining  sea — 

The  Bridegroom  with  his  bride! 


the  convent-roof  the  snows 
Ar«  sparkling  to  the  moon." 


SIR  GALAHAD. 


75 


SIR  GALAHAD. 

MY  good  blade  carves  the  casques  of  men, 

My  tough  lance  thrusteth  sure, 
My  strength  is  as  the  strength  of  ten, 

Because  ray  heart  is  pure. 
The  shattering  trumpet  shrilleth  high, 

The  hard  brands  shiver  on  the  steel, 
The  splinter'd  spear-shafts  crack  and  fly, 

The  horse  and  rider  reel  : 
They  reel,  they  roll  in  clanging  lists, 

And  when  the  tide  of  combat  stands, 
Perfume  and  flowers  fall  in  showers, 

That  lightly  rain  from  ladies'  hands. 

How  sweet  are  looks  that  ladies  bend 

On  whom  their  favors  fall  1 
For  them  I  battle  to  the  end, 

To  save  from  shame  and  thrall: 
But  all  my  heart  is  drawn  above, 

My  knees  are  bow'd  in  crypt  and  shrine: 
I  never  felt  the  kiss  of  love, 

Nor  maiden's  hand  in  mine. 
More  bounteous  aspects  on  me  beam, 

Me  mightier  transports  move  and  thrill ; 
So  keep  I  fair  thro'  faith  and  prayer 

A  virgin  heart  in  work  and  will. 

When  down  the  stormy  crescent  goes, 

A  light  before  me  swims, 
Between  dark  stems  the  forest  glows, 

I  hear  a  noise  of  hymns : 
Then  by  some  secret  shrine  I  ride ; 

I  hear  a  voice,  but  none  are  there ; 
The  stalls  are  void,  the  doors  are  wide, 

The  tapers  burning  fair. 
Fair  gleams  the  snowy  altar-cloth, 

The  silver  vessels  sparkle  clean, 


The  shrill  bell  rings,  the  censer  swings, 
And  solemn  chants  resound  between. 

Sometimes  on  lonely  mountain-meres 

I  find  a  magic  bark ; 
I  leap  on  board :  no  helmsman  steers : 

I  float  till  all  is  dark. 
A  gentle  sound,  an  awful  light ! 

Three  angels  bear  the  holy  Grail : 
With  folded  feet,  in  stoles  of  white, 

On  sleeping  wings  they  sail. 
Ah,  blessed  vision !  blood  of  God  ! 

My  spirit  beats  her  mortal  bars, 
As  down  dark  tides  the  glory  slides, 

And  star-like  mingles  with  the  stars. 

When  on  my  goodly  charger  borne 

Thro'  dreaming  towns  I  go, 
The  cock  crows  ere  the  Christmas  morn, 

The  streets  are  dumb  with  snow. 
The  tempest  crackles  on  the  leads, 

And,  ringing,  spins  from  brand  and  mail ; 
But  o'er  the  dark  a  glory  spreads, 

And  gilds  the  driving  hail. 
I  leave  the  plain,  I  climb  the  height; 

No  branchy  thicket  shelter  yields: 
But  blessed  forms  in  whistling  storms 

Fly  o'er  waste  fens  and  windy  fields. 

A  maiden  knight— to  me  is  given 

Such  hope,  I  know  not  fear  ; 
I  yearn  to  breathe  the  airs  of  heaven 

That  often  meet  me  here. 
I  muse  on  joy  that'  will  not  cease, 

Pure  spaces  clothed  in  living  beams, 
Pure  lilies  of  eternal  peace, 

Whose  odors  haunt  my  dreams; 


76 


TO  E.-L.— THE  LORD  OF  BURLEIGH. 


Arid,  stricken  by  an  angel's  hand, 
This  mortal  armor  that  I  wear, 

This  weight  arid  size,  this  heart  and  eyes, 
Are  touch'd,  are  turn'd  to  finest  air. 

The  clouds  are  broken  in  the  sky, 

And  thro'  the  mountain-walls 
A  rolling  organ-harmony 

Swells  up,  and  shakes  and  falls. 
Then  move  the  trees,  the  copses  nod, 

Wings  flutter,  voices  hover  clear: 
"O  just  and  faithful  knight  of  God! 

Ride  on !  the  prize  is  near." 
So  pass  I  hostel,  hall,  and  grange; 

By  bridge  and  ford,  by  park  and  pale, 
All-arm'd  I  ride,  whate'er  betide, 

Until  I  find  the  holy  Grail. 


TO  E.  L.,  ON  HIS  TRAVELS  IN  GREECE. 

ILLYEIAN  woodlands,  echoing  falls 
Of  water,  sheets  of  summer  glass, 
The  long  divine  Peneian  pass, 

The  vast  Akrokerauuian  walls, 

Tomohrit,  Athos,  all  things  fair, 
With  such  a  pencil,  such  a  pen, 
You  shadow  forth  to  distant  men, 

I  read  and  felt  that  I  was  there : 

And  trust  me  while  I  turn'd  the  page, 
And  track'd  you  still  on  classic  ground, 
I  grew  in  gladness  till  I  found 

My  spirits  in  the  golden  age. 

For  me  the  torrent  ever  pour'd 
And  glisten'd— here  and  there  alone 
The  broad-limb'd  Gods  at  random  thrown 

By  fountain-urns ;— and  Naiads  oar'd 

A  glimmering  shoulder  under  gloom 

Of  cavern  pillars ;  on  the  swell 

The  silver  lily  heaved  and  fell ; 
And  many  a  slope  was  rich  in  bloom 

From  him  that  on  the  mountain  lea 
By  dancing  rivulets  fed  his  flocks, 
To  him  who  sat  upon  the  rocks, 

And  fluted  to  the  morning  sea. 


THE  LORD  OF  BURLEIGH. 

IN  her  ear  he  whispers  gayly, 

"If  my  heart  by  signs  can  tell, 
Maiden,  I  have  watch'd  thee  daily. 

And  I  think  thou  lov'st  me  well." 
She  replies,  in  accents  fainter, 

"There  is  none  I  love  like  thee." 
He  is  but  a  landscape-painter, 

And  a  village  maiden  she. 
He  to  lips,  that  fondly  falter, 

Presses  his  without  reproof: 
Leads  her  to  the  village  altar, 

And  they  leave  her  father's  roof. 
"  I  can  make  no  marriage  present ; 

Little  can  I  give  my  wife. 
Love  will  make  our  cottage  pleasant, 

And  I  love  thee  more  than  life." 
They  by  parks  and  lodges  going 

See  the  lordly  castles  stand : 
Summer  woods,  about  them  blowing, 

Made  a  murmur  in  the  land. 
From  deep  thought  himself  he  rouses, 

Says  to  her  that  loves  him  well, 


"  Let  us  see  these  handsome  houses 

Where  the  wealthy  nobles  dsvell." 
So  she  goes  by  him  attended, 

Hears  him  lovingly  converse, 
Sees  whatever  fair  and  splendid 

Lay  betwixt  his  home  and  hers ; 
Parks  with  oak  and  chestnut  shady, 

Parks  and  order'd  gardens  great, 
Ancient  homes  of  lord  and  lady, 

Built  for  pleasure  and  for  state. 
All  he  shows  her  makes  him  dearer : 

Evermore  she  seems  to  gaze 
On  that  cottage  growing  nearer, 

Where  they  twain  will  spend  their  days. 
O  but  she  will  love  him  truly  ! 

He  shall  have  a  cheerful  home ; 
She  will  order  all  things  duly, 

When  beneath  his  roof  they  come. 
Thus  her  heart  rejoices  greatly, 

Till  a  gateway  she  discerns 
With  armorial  bearings  stately, 

And  beneath  the  gate  she  turns; 
Sees  a  mansion  more  majestic 

Than  all  those  she  saw  before: 
Many  a  gallant  gay  domestic 

Bows  before  him  at  the  door. 
And  they  speak  in  gentle  murmur, 

When  they  answer  to  his  call, 
While  he  treads  with  footstep  tinner, 

Leading  on  from  hall  to  hall. 
And,  while  now  she  wonders  blindly, 

Nor  the  meaning  can  divine, 
Proudly  turns  he  round  and  kindly, 

"All  of  this  is  mine  and  thine." 
Here  he  lives  in  state  and  bounty, 

Lord  of  Bnrleigh,  fair  and  free, 
Not  a  lord  in  all  the  county 

Is  so  great  a  lord  as  he. 
All  at  once  the  color  flushes 

Her  sweet  face  from  brow  to  chin : 
As  it  were  with  shame  she  blushes, 

And  her  spirit  changed  within. 
Then  her  countenance  all  over 

Pale  again  as  death  did  prove ; 
But  he  clasp'd  her  like  a  lover, 

And  he  cheer'd  her  soul  with  love. 
So  she  strove  against  her  weakness, 

Tho'  at  times  her  spirits  sank : 
Shaped  her  heart  with  woman's  meekness 

To  all  duties  of  her  rank: 
And  a  gentle  consort  made  he, 

And  her  gentle  mind  was  such 
That  she  grew  a  noble  lady, 

And  the  people  loved  her  much. 
But  a  trouble  weigh'd  upon  her, 

And  perplex'd  her,  night  and  morn, 
With  the  burden  of  an  honor 

Unto  which  she  was  not  born. 
Faint  she  grew,  and  ever  fainter, 

As  she  murmtir'd,  "  O,  that  he 
Were  once  more  that  landscape-painter, 

Which  did  win  my  heart  from  me !" 
So  she  droop'd  and  droop'd  before  him, 

Fading  slowly  from  his  side : 
Three  fair  children  first  she  bore  him, 

Then  before  her  time  she  died. 
Weeping,  weeping  late  and  early, 

Walking  up  and  pacing  down, 
Deeply  mourn'd  the  Lord  of  Burleigh, 

Burleigh-house  by  Stamford-town. 
And  he  came  to  look  upon  her, 

And  he  look'd  at  her  and  said, 
"Bring  the  dress  and  put  it  on  her, 

That  she  wore  when  she  was  wed." 
Then  her  people,  softly  treading, 

Bore  to  earth  her  body,  drest 
In  the  dress  that  she  was  wed  in, 

That  her  spirit  might  have  rest. 


EDWARD  GRAY.— SIR  LAUNCELOT  AND  QUEEN  GUINEVERE. 


77 


EDWARD  GRAY. 

SWEET  Emma  Moreland  of  yonder  town 
Met  me  walking  on  yonder  way, 

"And  have  you  lost  your  heart?"  she  said: 
"And  are  you  married  yet,  Edward  Gray  ?" 

Sweet  Emma  Moreland  spoke  to  me: 
Bitterly  weeping  I  tnrn'd  away : 

"Sweet  Emma  Moreland,  love  no  more 
Can  touch  the  heart  of  Edward  Gray. 

"Ellen  Adair  she  loved  me  well, 
Against  her  father's  and  mother's  will : 

To-day  I  sat  for  an  hour  and  wept, 
By  Ellen's  grave,  on  the  windy  hill. 

"  Shy  she  was,  and  I  thought  her  cold ; 

Thought  her  proud,  and  fled  over  the  sea ; 
Fill'd  I  was  with  folly  and  spite, 

Wheu  Ellen  Adair  was  dying  for  me, 

•'  Cruel,  cruel  the  words  I  said ! 
Cruelly  came  they  back  to-day: 


'You  're  too  slight  and  fickle,'  I  said, 
'To  trouble  the  heart  of  Edward  Gray/ 

"There  I  put  my  face  in  the  grass — 
Whisper'd,  'Listen  to  my  despair: 

I  repent  me  of  all  I  did: 
Speak  a  little,  Ellen  Adair !' 

"  Then  I  took  a  pencil  and  wrote 
On  the  mossy  stone,  as  I  lay, 

'Here  lies  the  body  of  Ellen  Adair; 
And  here  the  hear*  of  Edward  Gray !' 

"  Love  may  come,  and  love  may  go, 
And  fly,  like  a  bird,  from  tree  to  tree : 

But  I  will  love  no  more,  no  more, 
Till  Ellen  Adair  come  back  to  me. 

"Bitterly  wept  I  over  the  stone: 
Bitterly  weeping  I  turn'd  away: 

There  lies  the  body  of  Ellen  Adair ! 
And  there  the  heart  of  Edward  Gray  J" 


'Sweet  Emma  Moreland  spoke  to  me: 
Bitterly  weeping  I  turn'd  away." 


SIR  LAUNCELOT  AND  QUEEN  GUINE- 
VERE. 

A   FRAGMENT. 

LIKE  souls  that  balance  joy  and  pain, 
With  tears  and  smiles  from  heaven  again 
The  maiden  Spring  upon  the  plain 
Came  in  a  sunlit  fall  01  rain. 

In  crystal  vapor  everywhere 
Blue  isles  of  heaven  langh'd  between, 
And,  far  in  forest-deeps  unseen, 
The  topmost  elm-tree  gather'd  green 

from  draughts  of  balmy  air. 


Sometimes  the  linnet  piped  his  song: 
Sometimes  the  throstle  whistled  strong: 
Sometimes  the  sparhawk,  wheel'd  along, 
Hush'd  all  the  groves  from  fear  of  wrong: 

By  grassy  capes  with  fuller  sound 
In  curves  the  yellowing  river  ran, 
And  drooping  chestnut-buds  began 
To  spread  into  the  perfect  fan, 

Above  the  teeming  ground. 

Then,  in  the  boyhood  of  the  year, 
Sir  Lanncelot  and  Queen  Guinevere 
Rode  thro'  the  coverts  of  the  deer, 
With  blissful  treble  ringing  clear. 


A  FAREWELL.— THE  VISION  OF 


She  seem'd  a  part  of  joyous  Spring; 
A  gowii  of  grass-green  silk  she  wore, 
Buckled  with  golden  clasps  before ; 
A  light-green  tuft  of  plumes  she  bore 

Closed  in  a  golden  ring. 

Now  on  some  twisted  ivy-net, 

Now  by  some  tinkling  rivulet, 

In  mosses  mixt  with  violet 

Her  cream-white  mule  his  pastern  eet; 

And  fleeter  now  she  skimm'd  the  plains 
Than  she  whose  elfin  prancer  springs 
By  night  to  eery  warbliugs, 
When  all  the  glimmering  moorland  rings 

With  jingling  bridle-reins. 

As  she  fled  fast  thro'  sun  and  shade, 
The  happy  winds  upon  her  play'd, 
Blowing  the  ringlet  from  the  braid: 
She  look'd  so  lovely,  as  she  sway'd 

The  rein  with  dainty  finger-tips, 
A  man  had  given  all  other  bliss, 
And  all  his  worldly  worth  for  this, 
To  waste  his  whole  heart  in  one  kiss 

Upon  her  perfect  lips. 


A  FAREWELL. 

FLOW  down,  cold  rivulet,  to  the  sea, 

Thy  tribute  wave  deliver: 
No  more  by  thee  my  steps  shall  be, 

Forever  and  forever. 

Flow,  softly  flow,  by  lawn  and  lea, 

A  rivulet  then  a  river: 
Nowhere  by  thee  my  steps  shall  be, 

Forever  and  forever. 

But  here  will  sigh  thine  alder  tree, 
And  here  thine  aspen  shiver; 

And  here  by  thee  will  hum  the  bee, 
Forever  and  forever. 

A  thousand  suns  will  stream  on  thee, 
A  thousand  moons  will  quiver; 

But  not  by  thee  my  steps  shall  be, 
Forever  and  forever. 


THE  VISION  OF  SIN. 
1. 

I  HAD  a  vision  when  the  night  was  late : 
A  youth  came  riding  toward  a  palace-gate. 
He  rode  a  horse  with  wings,  that  would  have  flown, 
But  that  his  heavy  rider  kept  him  down. 
And  from  the  palace  came  a  child  of  sin, 
And  took  him  by  the  curls,  and  led  him  in, 
Where  sat  a  company  with  heated  eyes, 
Expecting  when  a  fountain  should  arise : 
A  sleepy  light  upon  their  brows  and  lips — 
As  when  the  snn,  a  crescent  of  eclipse, 
Dreams  over  lake  and  lawn,  and  isles  and  capes — 
Suffused  them,  sitting,  lying,  languid  shapes, 
By  heaps  of  gourds,  and  skins  of  wine,  and  piles  of 
grapes. 

2. 

Then  methought  I  heard  a  mellow  sound, 
Gathering  up  from  all  the  lower  ground ; 
Narrowing  in  to  where  they  sat  assembled 
Low -voluptuous  music  winding  trembled, 
Wov'n  in  circles :  they  that  heard  it  sigh'd, 
Panted  hand  in  hand  with  faces  pale, 


Swung  themselves,  and  in  low  tones  replied , 

Till  the  fountain  spouted,  showering  wide 

Sleet  of  diamond-drift  and  pearly  hail ; 

Then  the  music  touch'd  the  gates  and  died' 

Rose  again  from  where  it  seem'd  to  fail, 

Storm'd  in  orbs  of  song,  a  growing  gale ; 

Till  thronging  in  and  in,  to  where  they  waited, 

As  't  were  a  hundred-throated  nightingale, 

The  strong  tempestuous  treble  throbb'd  and  palp. 

tated ; 

Ran  into  its  giddiest  whirl  of  sound, 
Caught  the  sparkle.?,  and  in  circles, 
Purple  gauzes,  golden  hazes,  liquid  mazes, 
Flung  the  torrent  rainbow  round : 
Then  they  started  from  their  places, 
Moved  with  violence,  changed  in  hue, 
Caught  each  other  with  wild  grimaces, 
Half-invisible  to  the  view, 
Wheeling  with  precipitate  paces 
To  the  melody,  till  they  flew, 
Hair,  and  eyes,  and  limbs,  and  faces, 
Twisted  hard  in  fierce  embraces, 
Like  to  Furies,  like  to  Graces, 
Dash'd  together  in  blinding  dew : 
Till,  kill'd  with  some  luxurious  agony, 
The  nerve-dissolving  melody 
Flutter'd  headlong  from  the  sky. 


And  then  I  look'd  up  toward  a  mountain-tract, 

That  girt  the  region  with  high  cliff  and  lawn: 

I  saw  that  every  morning,  far  withdrawn 

Beyond  the  darkness  and  the  cataract, 

God  made  himself  an  awful  rose  of  dawn, 

Unheeded:  and  detaching,  fold  by  fold, 

From  those  still  heights,  and,  slowly  drawing  neai; 

A  vapor  heavy,  hueless,  formless,  cold, 

Came  floating  on  for  many  a  month  and  year, 

Unheeded :  and  I  thought  I  would  have  spoken, 

And  warned  that  madman  ere  it  grew  too  late: 

But,  as  in  dreams,  I  could  not    Mine  was  broken. 

When  that  cold  vapor  touch'd  the  palace  gate, 

And  link'd  again.    I  saw  within  my  head 

A  gray  and  gap-tooth'd  man  as  lean  as  death, 

Who  slowly  rode  across  a  wither'd  heath, 

And  lighted  at  a  ruin'd  inn,  and  said : 


"Wrinkled  hostler,  grim  and  thins 
Here  is  custom  come  your  way; 

Take  my  brute,  and  lead  him  in, 
Stuff  his  ribs  with  mouldy  hay. 

"Bitter  barmaid,  waning  fast! 

See  that  sheets  are  on  my  bed; 
What!  the  flower  of  life  is  past: 

It  is  long  before  you  wed. 

"  Slip-shod  waiter,  lank  and  sour, 
At  the  Dragon  on  the  heath! 

Let  us  have  a  quiet  hour, 
Let  us  hob-and-nob  with  Death. 

"I  am  old,  but  let  me  drink; 

Bring  me  spices,  bring  me  wine ; 
I  remember,  when  I  think, 

That  my  youth  was  half  divine. 

"  Wine  is  good  for  shrivell'd  lips, 
When  a  blanket  wraps  the  day, 

When  the  rotten  woodland  drips, 
And  the  leaf  is  stamp'd  in  clay. 

"  Sit  thee  down,  and  have  no  shame. 

Cheek  by  jowl,  and  knee  by  knee : 
What  care  I  for  any  name? 

What  for  order  or  degree? 


THE  VISIOX  OF  SIN. 


79 


"  Let  me  screw  thee  up  a  peg : 
Let  me  loose  thy  toogue  with  wine: 

Callest  thoa  that  thing  a  leg  ? 
Which  is  thinnest  ?  thine  or  mine  ? 

"Thou  shalt  not  be  saved  by  works: 

Thou  hast  been  a  sinner  too : 
Ruin'd  trunks  on  wither'd  forks, 

Empty  scarecrows,  I  and  you  ! 

"Fill  the  cup,  and  fill  the  can: 

Have  a  rouse  before  the  morn : 
Every  moment  dies  a  man, 

Every  moment  one  is  born. 

"  We  are  men  of  rnin'd  blood ; 

Therefore  comes  it  we  are  wise. 
Fish  are  we  that  love  the  mud, 

Rising  to  no  fancy-flies. 

"  Name  and  fame !  to  fly  sublime 

Through  the  courts,  the  camps,  the  schools, 
Is  to  be  the  ball  of  Time, 

Bandied  in  the  hands  of  fools. 

"  Friendship  '.—to  be  two  in  one — 

Let  the  canting  liar  pack ! 
Well  I  know,  when  I  am  gone, 

How  she  mouths  behind  my  back. 

"Virtue  ! — to  be  good  and  just — 

Every  heart,  when  sifted  well, 
Is  a  clot  of  warmer  dust, 

Mix'd  with  cunning  sparks  of  hell. 

"  O !  we  two  as  well  can  look 

Whited  thought  and  cleanly  life 
As  the  priest,  above  his  book 

Leering  at  his  neighbor's  wife. 

"Fill  the  cup,  and  fill  the  can: 

Have  a  rouse  before  the  morn: 
Every  moment  dies  a  man, 

Every  moment  one  is  born. 

"Drink,  and  let  the  parties  rave: 

They  are  flll'd  with  idle  spleen; 
Rising,  falling,  like  a  wave, 

For  they  know  not  what  they  mean. 

"He  that  roars  for  liberty 

Faster  binds  a  tyrant's  power; 
And  the  tyrant's  cruel  glee 

Forces  on  the  freer  hour. 

"Fill  the  can,  and  fill  the  cup: 

All  the  windy  ways  of  men 
Are  but  dust  that  rises  up, 

And  is  lightly  laid  again. 

"Greet  her  with  applausive  breath, 

Freedom,  gayly  doth  she  tread; 
In  her  right  a  civic  wreath, 

In  her  left  a  human  head 

"No,  I  love  not  what  is  new; 

She  is  of  an  ancient  house : 
And  I  think  we  know  the  hue 

Of  that  cap  upon  her  brows. 

"Let  her  go!  her  thirst  she  slakes 

Where  the  bloody  conduit  runs: 
Then  her  sweetest  meal  she  makes 

On  the  first-born  of  her  sons. 

"Drink  to  lofty  hopes  that  cool- 
Visions  of  a  perfect  State  : 

Drink  we,  last,  the  public  fool, 
Frantic  love  and  frantic  hate. 

"Chant  me  now  some  wicked  stave. 
Till  thy  drooping  courage  rise, 


And  the  glow-worm  of  the  grave 
Glimmer  in  thy  rheumy  eyes. 

"Fear  not  thon  to  loose  thy  tongue; 

Set  thy  hoary  fancies  free ; 
What  is  loathsome  to  the  young 

Savors  well  to  thee  and  me. 

"  Change,  reverting  to  the  years, 
When  thy  nerves  could  understand 

What  there  is  in  loving  tears, 
And  the  warmth  of  hand  in  hand. 

"Tell  me  tales  of  thy  first  love- 
April  hopes,  the  fools  of  chance: 

Till  the  graves  begin  to  move, 
And  the  dead  begin  to  dance. 

"Fill  the  can,  and  fill  the  cup: 

All  the  windy  ways  ot  men 
Are  but  dust  that  rises  up, 

And  is  lightly  laid  again. 

"Trooping  from  their  mouldy  dens 

The  chap-fallen  circle  spreads: 
Welcome,  fellow-citizens, 

Hollow  hearts  and  empty  heads  i 

"  You  are  bones,  and  what  of  that  ? 

Every  face,  however  full, 
Padded  round  with  flesh  and  fat, 

Is  but  modell'd  on  a  skull. 

"Dqpth  is  king,  and  Vivat  Rex! 

Tread  a  measure  on  the  stones, 
Madam — if  I  know  your  sex, 

From  the  fashion,  of  your  bones. 

"  Xo,  I  cannot  praise  the  fire 

In  your  eye — nor  yet  your  lip: 
All  the  more  do  I  admire 

Joints  of  cunning  workmanship. 

"  Lo  !  God's  likeness — the  ground-plan— 
Neither  modell'd,  glazed,  or  framed: 

Buss  me,  thon  rough  sketch  of  man, 
Far  too  naked  to  be  shamed ! 

"  Drink  to  Fortune,  drink  to  Chance, 

While  we  keep  a  little  breath! 
Drink  to  heavy  Ignorance  ! 

Hob-and-nob  with  brother  Death ! 

"  Thou  art  mazed,  the  night  is  long, 

And  the  longer  night  is  near: 
What!  I  am  not  all  as  wrong 

As  a  bitter  jest  is  dear. 

"Youthful  hopes,  by  scores,  to  all, 
When  the  locks  are  crisp  and  curl'd; 

Unto  me  my  maudlin  gall 
And  my  mockeries  of  the  world. 

"Fill  the  cup,  and  fill  the  can! 

Mingle  madness,  mingle  scorn  1 
Dregs  of  life,  and  lees  of  man  : 

Yet  we  will  not  die  forlorn." 

5. 

The  voice  grew  faint :  there  came  a  further  change 
Once  more  uprose  the  mystic  mountain-range: 
Below  were  men  aud  horses  pierced  with  worms, 
And  slowly  quickening  into  lower  forms; 
By  shards  and  scurf  of  salt,  and  scum  of  dross, 
Old  plash  of  rains,  and  refuse  patch'd  with  moss. 
Then  some  one  spake :  "  Behold '.  it  was  a  crime 
Of  sense  avenged  by  sense  that  wore  with  time." 
Another  said:  "The  crime  of  sense  became 
The  crime  of  malice,  and  is  equal  biame." 


80 


THE  EAGLE. 


And  one :  "  He  had  not  wholly  qnench'd  his  power ; 
A  little  grain  of  conscience  made  him  sour." 
At  last  I  heard  a  voice  upon  the  slope 
Cry  to  the  summit,  "Is  there  any  hope?" 
To  which  an  answer  peal'd  from  that  high  land, 
But  in  a  tongue  no  man  could  understand ; 
And  on  the  glimmering  limit  far  withdrawn 
tiod  made  Himself  an  awful  rose  of  dawn. 


COME  not,  when  I  am  dead, 

To  drop  thy  foolish  tears  upon  my  grave, 
To  trample  round  my  fallen  head, 

And  vex  the  unhappy  dust  thou  wouldst  not  save. 
There  let  the  wind  sweep  and  the  plover  cry ; 
But  thou,  go  by. 

Child,  if  it  were  thine  error  or  thy  crime 

I  care  no  longer,  being  all  unblest : 
Wed  whom  thou  wilt,  but  I  am  sick  of  Time, 

And  I  desire  to  rest. 

Pass  on,  weak  heart,  and  leave  me  where  I  lie: 
Go  by,  go  by. 


THE    EAGLE. 

FRAGMENT. 

HE  clasps  the  crag  with  hooked  bands ; 
Close  to  the  sun  in  lonely  lands, 
Siug'd  with  the  azure  world,  he  stands. 


The  wrinkled  sea  beneath  him  crawls; 
He  watches  from  his  mountain  walls, 
And  like  a  thunderbolt  he  falls. 


MOVE  eastward,  happy  earth,  and  leave 
Yon  orange  sunset  waning  slow: 

From  fringes  of  the  faded  eve, 
O,  happy  planet,  eastward  go-. 

Till  over  thy  dark  shoulder  glow 
Thy  silver  sister-world,  and  rise 
To  glass  herself  in  dewy  eyes 

That  watch  me  from  the  glen  below. 

Ah,  bear  me  with  thee,  lightly  borne, 
Dip  forward  under  starry  light, 

And  move  me  to  my  marriage-morn, 
And  round  again  to  happy  night. 


BREAK,  break,  break, 

On  thy  cold  gray  stones,  O  Sea! 
And  I  would  that  my  tongue  could  utter 

The  thoughts  that  arise  in  me. 

0  well  for  the  fisherman's  boy, 

That  he  shouts  with  his  sister  at  play  I 
O  well  for  the  sailor  lad, 

That  he  sings  in  his  boat  on  the  bay ! 


;  Break,  break,  break, 

On  thy  cold  gray  stones,  O  Sea !" 


THE  BEGGAR  MAID.— THE  POET'S  SONG. 


81 


And  the  stately  ships  go  on 
To  their  haven  under  the  hill ; 

But  O  for  the  touch  of  a  vanish'd  hand, 
And  the  sound  of  a  voice  that  is  still ! 

Break,  break,  break, 

At  the  foot  of  thy  crags,  O  Sea ! 
But  the  tender  grace  of  a  day  that  is  dead 

Will  never  come  back  to  me. 


THE  BEGGAR  MAID. 

HEE  arras  across  her  breast  she  laid ; 

She  was  more  fair  than  words  can  say: 
Barefooted  came  tho  beggar  maid 

Before  the  king  Qophetua. 
In  robe  and  crown  the  king  stept  down, 

To  meet  and  greet  her  on  her  way ; 
"  It  is  no  wonder,"  said  the  lords, 

"She  is  more  beautiful  than  day." 

As  shines  the  moon  in  clouded  skies, 
She  in  her  poor  attire  was  seen: 

One  praised  her  ankles,  one  her  eyes, 
One  her  dark  hair  and  lovesome  mien. 


So  sweet  a  face,  such  angel  grace, 
In  all  that  land  had  never  been: 

Cophetua  sware  a  royal  oath : 
"  This  beggar  maid  shall  be  my  queen !" 


THE  POET'S  SONG. 

THE  rain  had  fallen,  the  Poet  arose, 

He  pass'd  by  the  town  and  out  of  the  street, 
A  light  wind  blew  from  the  gates  of  the  sun, 

And  waves  of  shadow  went  over  the  wheat, 
And  he  sat  him  down  in  a  lonely  place, 

And  chanted  a  melody  loud  and  sweet, 
That  made  the  wild-swan  pause  in  her  cloud, 

And  the  lark  drop  down  at  his  feet. 

The  swallow  stopt  as  he  hunted  the  bee, 

The  snake  slipt  under  a  spray, 
The  wild  hawk  stood  with  the  down  on  his  beak, 

And  stared,  with  his  foot  on  the  prey, 
And  the  nightingale  thought,  "I  have  sung  many 
songs, 

But  never  a  one  so  gay, 
For  he  sings  of  what  the  world  will  be 

When  the  years  have  died  away." 


1  In  robe  and  crown  the  king  »tept  do 
To  meet  and  greet  her  on  her  way.' 


82 


THE  PRINCESS :  A  MEDLEY. 


THE    PRINCESS: 
A   MEDLEY. 


TO 

HENEY   LUSHINGTON 

THIS     VOLUME     IS     INSCRIBED     BY     HIS     FRIEND 

A.  TENNYSON. 


PROLOGUE. 

SIE  WALTEB  VIVIAN  all  a  summer's  day 
Gave  his  broad  lawns  until  the  set  of  sun 
Up  to  the  people  :  thither  flock'd  at  noon 
His  tenants, 'wife  and  child,  and  thither  half 
The  neighboring  borough  with  their  Institute 
Of  which  he  was  the  patron.    I  was  there 
From  college,  visiting  the  son, — the  son 
A  Walter  too, — with  others  of  our  set, 
Five  others:  we  were  seven  at  Vivian-place. 

And  me  that  morning  Walter  show'd  the*house, 
Greek,  set  with  busts:  from  vases  in  the  hall 
Flowers  of  all  heavens,  and  lovelier  than  their  names, 
Grew  side  by  side ;  and  on  the  pavement  lay 
Carved  stones  of  the  Abbey-ruin  in  the  park. 
Huge  Ammonites,  and  the  first  bones  of  Time ; 
And  on  the  tables  every  clime  and  age 
Jumbled  together:  celts  and  calumets, 
Claymore  and  snow-shoe,  toys  in  lava,  fans 
Of  sandal,  amber,  ancient  rosaries, 
Laborious  orient  ivory  sphere  in  sphere, 
The  cursed  Malayan  crease,  and  battle-clubs 
From  the  isles  of  palm :  and  higher  on  the  walls, 
Betwixt  the  monstrous  horns  of  elk  and  deer, 
His  own  forefathers'  arms  and  armor  hung. 

And  "this,"  he  said,  "was  Hugh's  at  Agincourt; 
And  that  was  old  Sir  Ralph's  at  Ascalon : 
A  good  knight  he !  we  keep  a  chronicle 
With  all  about  him," — which  he  brought,  and  I 
Dived  in  a  hoard  of  tales  that  dealt  with  knights 
Half-legend,  half-historic,  counts  and  kings 
Who  laid  about  them  at  their  wills  and  died ; 
And  mixt  with  these,  a  lady,  one  that  arm'd 
Her  own  fair  head,  and  sallying  thro'  the  gate, 
Had  beat  her  foes  with  slaughter  from  her  walls. 

"  O  miracle  of  women,"  said  the  book, 
"O  noble  heart  who,  being  strait-besieged 
By  this  wild  king  to  force  her  to  his  wish, 
Nor  bent,  nor  broke,  nor  shunn'd  a  soldier's  death, 
But  now  when  all  was  lost  or  seem'd  as  lost — 
Her  stature  more  than  mortal  in  the  burst 
Of  sunrise,  her  arm  lifted,  eyes  on  fire — 
Brake  with  a  blast  of  trumpets  from  the  gate, 
And,  falling  on  them  like  a  thunderbolt, 
She  trampled  some  beneath  her  horses'  heels, 
And  some  were  whelm'd  with  missiles  of  the  wall, 
And  some  were  push'd  with  lances  from  the  rock, 
And  part  were  drown'd  within  the  whirling  brook: 
O  miracle  of  noble  womanhood  !" 

So  eang  the  gallant  glorious  chronicle ; 
And,  I  all  rapt  in  this,  "  Come  out,"  he  said, 
"  To  the  Abbey :  there  is  Aunt  Elizabeth 


And  sister  Lilia  with  the  rest"    We  went 

(I  kept  the  book  and  had  my  finger  in  it) 

Down  thro'  the  park :  strange  was  the  sight  to  me ; 

For  all  the  sloping  pasture  murmur'd,  sown 

With  happy  faces  and  with  holiday. 

There  moved  the  multitude,  a  thousand  heads ; 

The  patient  leaders  of  their  Institute 

Taught  them  with  facts.    One  rear'd  a  font  of  stone 

And  drew  from  butts  of  water  on  the  slope, 

The  fountain  of  the  moment,  playing  now 

A  twisted  snake,  and  now  a  rain  of  pearls, 

Or  steep-up  spout  whereon  the  gilded  ball 

Danced  like  a  wisp :  and  somewhat  lower  down 

A  man  with  knobs  and  wires  and  vials  fired 

A  cannon :  Echo  answer'd  in  her  sleep 

From  hollow  fields:  and  here  were  telescopes 

For  azure  views ;  and  there  a  group  of  girls 

In  circle  waited,  whom  the  electric  shock 

Dislink'd  with  shrieks  and  laughter:  round  the  lake 

A  little  clock-work  steamer  paddling  plied 

And  shook  the  lilies:  perch'd  about  the  knolls 

A  dozen  angry  models  jetted  steam: 

A  petty  railway  ran  :  a  fire-balloon 

Rose  gem-like  up  before  the  dusky  groves 

And  dropt  a  fairy  parachute  and  past: 

And  there  thro'  twenty  posts  of  telegraph 

They  flash'd  a  saucy  message  to  and  fro 

Between  the  mimic  stations;  so  that  sport 

Went  hand  in  hand  with  -Science  ;  otherwhere 

Pure  sport :  a  herd  of  boys  with  clamor  bowl'd, 

And  stump'd  the  wicket ;  babies  roll'd  about 

Like  tumbled  fruit  in  grass ;  and  men  and  maids 

Arranged  a  country  dance,  and  flew  thro'  light 

And  shadow,  while  the  twangling  violin 

Struck  up  with  Soldier-laddie,  and  overhead 

The  broad  ambrosial  aisles  of  lofty  lime 

Made  noise  with  bees  and  breeze  from  end  to  end. 

Strange  was  the  sight  and  smacking  of  the  time ; 
And  long  we  gazed,  but  satiated  at  length 
Came  to  the  ruins.    High-arch'd  and  ivy-claspt, 
Of  finest  Gothic  lighter  than  a  fire, 
Thro'  one  wide  chasm  of  time  and  frost  they  gave 
The  park,  the  crowd,  the  house ;  but  all  within 
The  sward  was  trim  as  any  garden  lawn: 
And  here  we  lit  on  Aunt  Elizabeth, 
And  Lilia  with  the  rest,  and  lady  friends 
From  neighbor  seats :  and  there  was  Ralph  himself, 
A  broken  statue  propt  against  the  wall, 
As  gay  as  any.    Lilia,  wild  with  sport, 
Half  child,  half  woman  as  she  was,  had  wound 
A  scarf  of  orange  round  the  stony  helm, 
And  robed  the  shoulders  in  a  rosy  silk, 
That  made  the  old  warrior  from  his  ivied  nook 
Glow  like  a  sunbeam:  near  his  tomb  a  feast 
Shone,  silver-set ;  about  it  lay  the  guests, 
And  there  we  joined  them :  then  the  maiden  Auut 


THE  PRINCESS :   A  MEDLEY. 


88 


Took  this  fair  day  for  test,  and  from  it  preach'd 
An  universal  culture  for  the  crowd, 
And  all  things  great ;  but  we,  uuworthier,  told 
Of  College :  he  had  clirab'd  across  the  spikes, 
And  he  had  squeezed  himself  betwixt  the  bars, 
And  he  had  breathed  the  Proctor's  dogs:  and  one 
Discuss'd  his  tutor,  rough  to  common  men, 
But  honeying  at  the  whisper  of  a  lord ; 
And  one  the  Master,  as  a  rogue  in  grain 
Veneer'd  with  sanctimonious  theory. 

But  while  they  talk'd,  above  their  heads  I  saw 
The  feudal  warrior  lady-clad;  which  brought 
My  book  to  mind:  and  opening  this  I  read 
Of  old  Sir  Ralph  a  page  or  two  that  rang 
With  tilt  and  tourney ;  then  the  tale  of  her 
That  drove  her  foes  with  slaughter  from  her  walls, 
And  much  I  praised  her  nobleness,  and  "  Where," 
Ask'd  Walter,  patting  Lilia's  head  (she  lay 
Beside  him)  "  lives  there  such  a  woman  now  ?" 

Quick  answer'd  Lilia,  "There  are  thousands  now 
Such  women,  but  convention  beats  them  down : 
It  is  but  bringing  up ;  no  more  than  that  : 
You  men  have  done  it :  how  I  hate  you  all ! 
Ah,  were  I  something  great '.  I  wish  I  were 
Some  mighty  poetess,  I  would  shame  you  then, 
That  love  to  keep  us  children !    O  I  wish 
That  I  were  some  great  Princess,  I  would  build 
Far  off  from  men  a  college  like  a  man's, 
And  I  would  teach  them  all  that  men  are  taught : 
We  are  twice  as  quick !"    And  here  she  shook  aside 
The  hand  that  play'd  the  patron  with  her  curls. 

And  one  said  smiling,  "  Pretty  were  the  sight 
If  our  old  halls  could  change  their  sex,  and  flaunt 
With  prudes  for  proctors,  dowagers  for  deans, 
And  sweet  girl-graduates  in  their  golden  hair. 
I  think  they  should  not  wear  our  rusty  gowns, 
But  move  as  rich  as  Emperor-moths  or  Ralph 
Who  shines  so  in  the  corner ;  yet  I  fear, 
If  there  were  many  Lilias  in  the  brood, 
However  deep  yon  might  embower  the  nest, 
Some  boy  would  spy  it." 

At  this  upon  the  sward 
She  tapt  her  tiny  silken-sandal'd  foot: 
"That's  your  light  way:  but  I  would  make  it  death 
For  any  male  thing  but  to  peep  at  us." 

Petulant  she  spoke,  and  at  herself  she  laugh'd ; 
A  rose-bud  set  with  little  wilful  thorns, 
And  sweet  as  English  air  could  make  her,  she: 
But  Walter  hail'd  a  score  of  names  upon  ner, 
And  "petty  Ogress,"  and  "ungrateful  Puss," 
And  swore  he  long'd  at  College,  only  long'd, 
All  else  was  well,  for  she-society. 
They  boated  and  they  cricketed;  they  talk'd 
At  wine,  in  clubs,  of  art,  of  politics  ; 
They  lost  their  weeks ;  they  vext  the  souls  of  deans ; 
They  rode ;  they  betted  ;  made  a  hundred  friends, 
And  caught  the  blossom  of  the  flying  terms, 
But  miss'd  the  mignonette  of  Vivian-place, 
The  little  hearth-flower  Lilia.    Thus  he  spoke, 
Part  banter,  part  affection.    • 

"True,"  she  said, 

"  We  doubt  not  that.    O  yes,  you  miss'd  us  much. 
I  '11  stake  my  ruby  ring  upon  it  you  did." 

She  held  it  out ;  and  as  a  parrot  turns 
Up  thro'  gilt  wires  a  crafty  loving  eye, 
And  takes  a  lady's  finger  with  all  care, 
And  bites  it  for  true  heart  and  not  for  harm, 
So  he  with  Lilia's.    Daintily  she  shriek'd 
And  wrung  it.    "  Doubt  my  word  again  !"  he  said. 
"Come,  listen  !  here  is  proof  that  you  were  miss'd: 
We  seven  stay'd  at  Christmas  up  to  read, 
And  there  we  took  one  tutor  as  to  read: 
The  hard-grain'd  Muses  of  the  cube  and  square 
Were  out  of  season :  never  man,  I  think, 


So  moulder'd  in  a  sinecure  as  he : 

For  while  our  cloisters  echo'd  frosty  feet, 

And  our  long  walks  were  stript  as  bare  as  brooms, 

We  did  but  talk  you  over,  pledge  you  all 

In  wassail :  often,  like  as  many  girls — 

Sick  for  the  hollies  and  the  yews  of  home — 

As  many  little  trifling  Lilias — play'd 

Charades  and  riddles  as  at  Christmas  here, 

And  what's  my  thought  and  wften  and  where  and  how 

And  often  told  a  tale  from  mouth  to  mouth 

As  here  at  Christmas." 

She  remember'd  that: 

A  pleasant  game,  she  thought:  she  liked  it  more 
Than  magic  music,  forfeits,  all  the  rest 
But  these — what  kind  of  tales  did  men  tell  men, 
She  wonder'd,  by  themselves? 

A  half-disdain 

Perch'd  on  the  pouted  blossom  of  her  lips : 
And  Walter  nodded  at  me ;  "  He  began, 
The  rest  would  follow,  each  in  turn ;  and  so 
We  forged  a  sevenfold  story.    Kind  f  what  kind  » 
Chimeras,  crotchets,  Christmas  solecisms, 
Seven-headed  monsters  only  made  to  kill 
Time  by  the  fire  in  winter." 

"  Kill  him  now, 

The  tyrant !  kill  him  in  the  summer  too," 
Said  Lilia  ;  "Why  not  now,"  the  maiden  Aunt, 
"  Why  not  a  summer's  as  a  winter's  tale  ? 
A  tale  for  summer  as  befits  the  time, 
And  something  it  should  be  to  suit  the  place, 
Heroic,  for  a  hero  lies  beneath, 
Grave,  solemn !" 

Walter  warp'd  his  mouth  at  this 
To  something  so  mock-solemn,  that  I  langh'd 
And  Lilia  woke  with  sudden-shrilling  mirth 
An  echo  like  a  ghostly  woodpecker, 
Hid  in  the  ruins;  till  the  maiden  Aunt 
(A  little  sense  of  wrong  had  touch'd  her  face 
With  color)  turn'd  to  me  with  "  As  you  will ; 
Heroic  if  you  will,  or  what  yon  will, 
Or  be  yourself  your  hero  if  you  will." 

"Take  Lilia,  then,  for  heroine,"  clamor'd  he, 
"And  make  her  some  great  Princess,  six  feet  high, 
Grand,  epic,  homicidal ;  and  be  you 
The  Prince  to  win  her !" 

"Then  follow  me,  the  Prince,' 
I  answer'd,  "  each  be  hero  in  his  turn  ! 
Seven  and  yet  one,  like  shadows  in  a  dream. — 
Heroic  seems  our  Princess  as  required. — 
But  something  made  to  suit  with  Time  and  place, 
A  Gothic  ruin  and  a  Grecian  house, 
A  talk  of  college  and  of  ladies'  rights, 
A  feudal  knight  in  silken  masquerade, 
And,  yonder,  shrieks  and  strange  experiments 
For  which  the  good  Sir  Ralph  had  burnt  them  all— 
This  were  a  medley !  we  should  have  him  back 
Who  told  the  'Winter's  tale'  to  do  it  for  us. 
No  matter :  we  will  say  whatever  comes. 
And  let  the  ladies  sing  us,  if  they  will, 
From  time  to  time,  some  ballad  or  a  song 
To  give  us  breathing-space." 

So  I  began, 

And  the  rest  follow'd :  and  the  women  saug 
Between  the  rougher  voices  of  the  men, 
Like  linnets  in  the  pauses  of  the  wind : 
And  here  I  give  the  story  and  the  songs. 

I. 

A  PRINCE  I  was,  bine-eyed,  and  fair  in  face, 
Of  temper  amorous,  as  the  first  of  May, 
With  lengths  of  yellow  ringlet,  like  a  girl, 
For  on  my  cradle  shone  the  Northern  star. 

There  lived  an  ancient  legend  in  our  house. 
Some  sorcerer,  whom  a  far-off  graudsire  burnt 
Because  he  cast  no  shadow,  had  foretold, 
Dying,  that  none  of  all  our  blood  should  know 


84 


THE  PRINCESS:  A  MEDLEY. 


The  shadow  from  the  substance,  and  that  one 

Should  come  to  fight  with  shadows  and  to  fall. 

For  so,  my  mother  said,  the  story  ran. 

And,  truly,  waking  dreams  were,  more  or  less, 

An  old  and  strange  affection  of  the  house. 

Myself  too  had  weird  seizures,  Heaven  knows  what : 

Oil  a  sudden  in  the  midst  of  men  and  day, 

And  while  I  walk'd  and  talk'd  as  heretofore, 

I  seem'd  to  move  among  a  world  of  ghosts, 

And  feel  myself  the  shadow  of  a  dream. 

Our  great  court-Galen  poised  his  gilt-head  cane, 

And  paw'd  his  beard,  and  mutter'd  "catalepsy." 

My  mother  pitying  made  a  thousand  prayers; 

My  mother  was  as  mild  as  any  saint, 

Half-canonized  by  all  that  look'd  on  her, 

So  gracious  was  her  tact  and  tenderness ; 

But  my  good  father  thought  a  king  a  king; 

He  cared  not  for  the  affection  of  the  house ; 

He  held  his  sceptre  like  a  pedant's  wand 

To  lash  offence,  and  with  long  arms  and  hands 

Reach'd  out,  and  pick'd  offenders  from  the  mass 

For  judgment 

Now  it  chanced  that  I  had  been, 
While  life  was  yet  in  bud  and  blade,  betroth'd 
To  one,  a  neighboring  Princess :  she  to  me 
Was  proxy-wedded  with  a  bootless  calf 
At  eight  years  old;  and  still  from  time  to  time 
Came  murmurs  of  her  beauty  from  the  South, 
And  of  her  brethren,  youths  of  puissance ; 
And  still  I  wore  her  picture  by  my  heart, 
And  one  dark  tress ;  and  all  around  them  both 
Sweet  thoughts  would  swarm  as  bees  about  their 
queen. 

But  when  the  days  drew  nigh  that  I  should  wed, 
My  father  sent  ambassadors  with  furs 
And  jewels,  gifts,  to  fetch  her:  these  brought  back 
A  present,  a  great  labor  of  the  loom; 
And  therewithal  an  answer  vague  as  wind : 
Besides,  they  saw  the  king;  he  took  the  gifts; 
He  said  there  was  a  compact;  that  was  true: 
But  then  she  had  a  will ;  was  he  to  blame  ? 
And  maiden  fancies ;  loved  to  live  alone 
Among  her  women ;  certain,  would  not  wed. 

That  morning  in  the  presence-room  I  stood 
With  Cyril  and  with  Florian,  my  two  friends: 
The  first,  a  gentleman  of  broken  means 
(His  father's  fault)  but  given  to  starts  and  bursts 
Of  revel ;  and  the  last,  my  other  heart, 
And  almost  my  half-self,  for  still  we  moved 
Together,  twinn'd  as  horse's  ear  and  eye. 

Now,  while  they  spake,  I  saw  my  father's  face 
Grow  long  and  troubled  like  a  rising  moon, 
Inflamed  with  wrath:  he  started  on  his  feet, 
Tore  the  king's  letter,  snow'd  it  down,  and  rent 
The  wonder  of  the  loom  thro'  warp  and  woof 
From  skirt  to  skirt:  and  at  the  last  he  sware 
That  he  would  send  a  hundred  thousand  men,' 
And  bring  her  in  a  whirlwind :  then  he  chew'd 
The  thrice-turn'd  cud  of  wrath,  and  cook'd  his  spleen, 
Communing  with  his  captains  of  the  war. 

At  last  I  spoke.    "My  father,  let  me  go. 
It  cannot  be  but  some  gross  error  lies 
In  this  report,  this  answer  of  a  king, 
Whom  all  men  ^  ite  as  kind  and  hospitable : 
Or,  maybe,  I  myself,  my  bride  once  seen, 
Whate'er  my  grief  to  find  her  less  than  fame, 
May  rue  the  bargain  made."    And  Florian  said: 
"  I  have  a  sister  at  the  foreign  court, 
Who  moves  about  the  Princess;  she,  you  know, 
Who  wedded  wi^li  a  nobleman  from  thence: 
He,  dying  lately,  left  her,  as  I  hear, 
The  lady  of  three  castles  in  that  land : 
Thro'  her  this  matter  might  be  sifted  clean." 
And  Cyril  whisper'd :  "  Take  me  with  you  too." 


Then  laughing  "  what,  if  these  weird  seizures  come 
Upon  you  in  those  lands,  and  no  one  near 
To  point  you  out  the  shadow  from,  the  truth ! 
Take  me :  I'll  serve  you  better  in  a  strait ; 
I  grate  on  rusty  hinges  here:"  but  "No!" 
Roar'd  the  rough  king,  "  you  shall  not ;  we  ourself 
Will  crush  her  pretty  maiden  fancies  dead 
In  iron  gauntlets:  break  the  council  up." 

But  when  the  council  broke,  I  rose  and  past 
Thro'  the  wild  woods  that  hung  about  the  town ; 
Found  a  still  place,  and  pluck'd  her  likeness  out; 
Laid  it  on  flowers,  and  watch'd  it  lying  bathed 
In  the  green  gleam  of  dewy-tassell'd  trees : 
What  were  those  fancies  ?  wherefore  break  her  troth  ? 
Proud  look'd  the  lips :  but  while  I  meditated 
A  wind  arose  and  rush'd  upon  the  South, 
And  shook  the  songs,  the  whispers,  and  the  shrieks 
Of  the  wild  woods  together ;  and  a  Voice 
Went  with  it,  "Follow,  follow,  thou  shall  win." 

Then,  ere  the  silver  sickle  of  that  month 
Became  her  golden  shield,  I  stole  from  court 
With  Cyril  and  with  Florian,  unperceived, 
Cat-footed  thro'  the  town  and  half  in  dread 
To  hear  my  father's  clamor  at  our  backs 
With  Ho !  from  some  bay-window  shake  the  night ; 
But  all  was  quiet:  from  the  bastion 'd  walls 
Like  threaded  spiders,  one  by  one,  we  dropt, 
And  flying  reach'd  the  frontier:  then  we  crost 
To  a  livelier  land ;  and  so  by  tilth  and  grange, 
And  vines,  and  blowing  bosks  of  wilderness, 
We  gain'd  the  mother-city  thick  with  towers, 
And  in  the  imperial  palace  found  the  king. 

His  name  was  Gama ;  crack'd  and  small  his  voice, 
But  bland  the  smile  that  like  a  wrinkling  wind 
On  glassy  water  drove  his  cheek  in  lines ; 
A  little  dry  old  man,  without  a  star, 
Not  like  a  king :  three  days  he  feasted  ns, 
And  on  the  fourth  I  spake  of  why  we  came, 
And  my  betroth'd.     "You  do  us,  Prince,"  he  said, 
Airing  a  snowy  hand  and  signet  gem, 
"All  honor.    We  remember  love  ourselves 
In  our  sweet  youth:  there  did  a  compact  pass 
Long  summers  back,  a  kind  of  ceremony — 
I  think  the  year  in  which  our  olives  fail'd. 
I  would  you  had  her,  Prince,  with  all  my  heart, 
With  my  full  heart:  but  there  were  widows  here, 
Two  widows,  Lady  Psyche,  Lady  Blanche ; 
They  fed  her  theories,  in  and  out  of  place 
Maintaining  that  with  equal  husbandry 
The  woman  were  an  equal  to  the  man. 
They  harp'd  on  this ;  with  this  our  banquets  rang ; 
Our  dances  broke  and  buzz'd  in  knots  of  talk; 
Nothing  but  this ;  my  very  ears  were  hot 
To  hear  them :  knowledge,  so  my  daughter  held, 
Was  all  in  all ;  they  had  but  been,  she  thought, 
As  children  ;  they  must  lose  the  child,  assume 
The  woman :  then,  Sir,  awful  odes  she  wrote, 
Too  awful,  sure,  for  what  they  treated  of, 
But  all  she  is  and  does  is  awful;  odes 
About  this  losing  of  the  child ;  and  rhymes 
And  dismal  lyrics,  prophesying  change 
Beyond  all  reason:  these  the  women  sang; 
And  they  that  know  such  things — I  sought  but  peace ; 
No  critic  I— would  call  them  masterpieces ; 
They  master'd  me.    At  last  she  begg'd  a  boon 
A  certain  summer-palace  which  I  have 
Hard  by  your  father's  frontier:  I  said  no, 
Yet  being  an  easy  man,  gaVe  it ;  and  there, 
All  wild  to  found  an  University 
For  maidens,  on  the  spur  she  fled ;  and  more 
We  know  not, — only  this:  they  see  no  men, 
Not  ev'n  her  brother  Arac,  nor  the  twins 
Her  brethren,  tho'  they  love  her,  look  upon  her 
As  on  a  kind  of  paragon ;  and  I 
(Pardon  me  saying  it)  were  much  loath  to  breed 


THE  PRINCESS:   A  MEDLEY. 


85 


Dispute  betwixt  myself  and  mine:  but  since 
(And  I  confess  with  right)  you  think  me  bound 
In  some  sort,  I  can  give  you  letters  to  her; 
And,  yet,  to  speak  the  truth,  I  rate  your  chance 
Almost  at  naked  nothing." 

Thus  the  king; 

And  I,  tho'  nettled  that  he  seem'd  to  slur 
With  garrulous  ease  and  oily  courtesies 
Our  formal  compact,  yet,  not  less  (all  frets 
But  chafing  me  ou  fire  to  find  my  bride) 
Went  forth  again  with  both  my  friends.    We  rode 
Many  a  long  league  back  to  the  North.    At  last 
From  hills,  that  look'd  across  a  land  of  hope, 
We  dropt  with  evening  on  a  rustic  town 
Set  in  a  gleaming  river's  crescent-curve, 
Close  at  the  boundary  of  the  liberties ; 
There  enter'd  an  old  hostel,  call'd  mine  host 
To  council,  plied  him  with  his  richest  wines, 
And  show'd  the  late-writ  letters  of  the  king. 

He  with  a  long  low  sibilation,  stared 
As  blank  as  death  in  marble :  then  exclaim'd 
Averring  it  was  clear  against  all  rules     * 
For  any  man  to  go:  but  as  his  brain 
Began  to  mellow,  "If  the  king,"  he  said, 
"Had  given  us  letters,  was  he  bound  to  speak? 
The  king  would  bear  him  out ;"  and  at  the  last — 
The  summer  of  the  vine  in  all  his  veins — 
"No  doubt  that  we  might  make  it  worth  his  while. 
She  once  had  past  that  way;  he  beard  her  speak; 
She  scared  him;  life!  he  never  saw  the  like; 
She  look'd  as  grand  as  doomsday  and  as  grave t 
And  he,  he  reverenced  his  liege-lady  there ; 
He  always  made  a  point  to  post  with  mares; 
His  daughter  aud  his  housemaid  were  the  boys: 
The  laud  he  understood  for  miles  about 
Was  till'd  by  women ;  all  the  swine  were  sows, 
And  all  the  dogs — " 

But  while  he  jested  thus 

A  thought  flash'd  thro'  me  which  I  cloth'd  in  act, 
Remembering  how  we  three  presented  Maid 
Or  Nymph,  or  Goddess,  at  high  tide  of  feast, 
In  masque  or  pageant  at  my  father's  court. 
We  sent  mine  host  to  purchase  female  gear; 
He  brought  it,  and  himself,  a  sight  to  shake 
The  midriff  of  despair  with  laughter,  holp 
To  lace  ns  up,  till  each,  in  maiden  plumes 
We  rustled:  him  we  gave  a  costly  bribe 
To  guerdon  silence,  mounted  our  good  steeds, 
And  boidly  ventured  on  the  liberties. 

We  follow'd  np  the  river  as  we  rode, 
And  rode  till  midnight  when  the  college  lights 
Began  to  glitter  firefly-like  in  copse 
And  linden  alley:  then  we  past  an  arch, 
Whereon  a  woman-statue  rose  with  wings 
From  four  wing'd  horses  dark  against  the  stars ; 
And  some  inscription  ran  along  the  front, 
But  deep  in  shadow :  further  on  we  gain'd 
A  little  street  half  garden  and  half  house ; 
But  scarce  could  hear  each  other  speak  for  noise 
Of  clocks  and  chimes,  like  silver  hammers  falling 
On  silver  anvils,  and  the  splash  and  stir 
Of  fountains  spouted  up  and  showering  down 
In  meshes  of  the  jasmine  and  the  rose: 
And  all  about  us  peal'd  the  nightingale, 
Rapt  in  her  song,  and  careless  of  the  snare. 

There  stood  a  bust  of  Pallas  for  a  sign, 
By  two   sphere   lamps   blazon'd  like  Heaven  and 

Earth 

With  constellation  and  with  continent, 
Above  an  entry :  riding  in,  we  call'd ; 
A  plump-arm'd  Ostleress  and  a  stable  wench 
Came  running  at  the  call,  and  help'd  us  down. 
Then  stept  a  buxom  hostess  forth,  and  sail'd, 
Full  blown,  before  us  into  rooms  which  gave 
Upon  a  pillar'd  porch,  the  bases  lost 


In  laurel :  her  we  ask'd  of  that  and  this, 

And  who  were  tutors.     "  Lady  Blanche,"  she  said, 

"Aud  Lady  Psyche."    "Which  was  prettiest, 

Best-natured ?''    "Lady  Psyche."    "  Hers  are  we," 

One  voice,  we  cried ;  and  I  sat  down  and  wrote, 

In  such  a  hand  as  when  a  field  of  corn 

Bows  all  its  ears  before  the  roaring  East: 

"Three  ladies  of  the  Northern  empire  pray 
Your  Highness  would  enroll  them  with  your  own, 
As  Lady  Psyche's  pupils." 

This  I  seal'd: 

The  seal  was  Cupid  bent  above  a  scroll, 
And  o'er  his  head  Urauian  Venus  hung, 
And  raised  the  blinding  bandage  from  his  eyes: 
I  gave  the  letter  to  be  sent  with  dawn: 
And  then  to  bed,  where  half  in  doze  I  seem'd 
To  float  about  a  glimmering  night,  and  watch 
A  full  sea  glazed  with  muffled  moonlight,  swell 
On  some  dark  shore  just  seen  that  it  was  rich. 


As  thro'  the  land  at  eve  we  went, 

And  pluck'd  the  ripeu'd  ears, 
We  fell  out,  my  wife  and  I, 
O  we  fell  out  I  know  not  why, 
And  kiss'd  again  with  tears. 

For  when  we  came  where  lies  the  child 

We  lost  in  other  years, 
There  above  the  little  grave, 
O  there  above  the  little  grave, 

WTe  kiss'd  again  with  tears. 

II. 

AT  break  of  day  the  College  Portress  came : 

'She  brought  us  Academic  silks,  in  hue 

The  lilac,  with  a  silken  hood  to  each, 

And  zoned  with  gold ;  and  now  when  these  were  on, 

And  we  as  rich  as  moths  from  dusk  cocoons, 

She,  curtseying  her  obeisance,  let  us  know 

The  Princess  Ida  waited:  out  we  paced, 

I  first,  and  following  thro'  the  porch  that  sang 

All  round  with  laurel,  issued  in  a  court 

Compact  of  lucid  marbles,  boss'd  with  lengths 

Of  classic  frieze,  with  ample  awnings  gay 

Betwixt  the  pillars,  and  with  great  urns  of  flowers. 

The  Muses  and  the  Graces,  group'd  in  threes, 

Enring'd  a  billowing  fountain  iu  the  midst ; 

And  here  and  there  on  lattice  edges  lay 

Or  book  or  lute;  but  hastily  we  past, 

And  up  a  flight  of  stairs  into  the  hall. 

There  at  a  board  by  tome  and  paper  sat, 
With  two  tame  leopards  couch'd  beside  .her  throne, 
All  beauty  compass  d  in  a  female  form, 
The  Princess;  liker  to  the  inhabitant 
Of  some  clear  planet  close  upon  the  Sun, 
Than  our  man's  earth ;  such  eyes  were  in  her  head, 
And  so  much  grace  and  power,  breathing  down 
From  over  her  arch'd  brows,  with  every  turn 
Lived  thro'  her  to  the  tips  of  her  long  hands, 
And  to  her  feet.    She  rose  her  height,  and  said : 

"We  give  you  welcome:  not  without  redound 
Of  use  and  glory  to  yourselves  ye  come, 
The  first-fruits  of  the  stranger:  aftertime, 
And  that  full  voice  which  circles  round  the  grave, 
Will  rank  yon  nobly,  mingled  up  with  me. 
What !  are  the  ladies  of  your  land  so  tall  ?" 
"We  of  the  court,"  said  Cyril.    "From  the  court," 
She  answer'd,  "then  ye  know  the  Prince?"  and  he: 
"The  climax  of  his  age !  as  tho'  there  were 
One  rose  in  all  the  world,  your  Highness  that, 
He  worships  your  ideal."    She  replied: 
"We  scarcely  thought  in  our  own  hall  to  hear 
This  barren  verbiage,  current  among  men, 
Like  coin,  the  tinsel  clink  of  compliment. 
Your  flight  from  out  your  bookless  wilds  would  seem 
As  arguing  love  of  knowledge  and  of  power ; 


80 


THE  PRINCESS:   A  MEDLEY. 


Your  language  proves  you  still  the  child.    Indeed, 
We  dream  not  of  him :  when  we  set  our  hand 
To  this  great  work,  we  purposed  with  ourself 
Never  to  wed.    You  likewise  will  do  well, 
Ladies,  in  entering  here,  to  cast  and  fling 
The  tricks,  which  make  us  toys  of  men,  that  so, 
Some  future  time,  if  so  indeed  you  will, 
You  may  with  those  self-styled  our  lords  ally 
Your  fortunes,  justlier  balanced,  scale  with  scale." 

At  those  high  words,  we,  conscious  of  ourselves, 
Perused  the  matting;  then  an  officer 
Rose  up,  and  read  the  statutes,  such  as  these: 
Not  for  three  years  to  correspond  with  home; 
Not  for  three  years  to  cross  the  liberties : 
Not  for  three  years  to  speak  with  any  meu; 
And  many  more,  which  hastily  subscribed, 
We  enter'd  on  the  boards:  and  "Now,"  she  cried, 
"Ye  are  green  wood,  see  ye  warp  not     Look,  our 

hall! 

Our  statues  '.—not  of  those  that  men  desire, 
Sleek  Odalisques,  or  oracles  of  mode, 
Nor  stunted  squaws  of  West  or  East ;  but  she 
That  taught  the  Sabine  how  to  rule,  and  she 
The  foundress  of  the  Babylonian  wall, 
The  Carian  Artemisia  strong  in  war, 
The  Rhodope,  that  built  the  pyramid, 
Clelia,  Cornelia,  with  the  Palmyreue 
That  fought  Aurelian,  and  the  Roman  brows 
Of  Agrippina.    Dwell  with  these  and  lose 
Convention,  since  to  look  on  noble  forms 
Makes  noble  thro'  the  sensuous  organism 
That  which  is  higher.    O  lift  your  natures  up : 
Embrace  our  aims:  work  out  your  freedom.     Girls, 
Knowledge  is  now  no  more  a  fountain  seal'd: 
Drink  deep,  until  the  habits  of  the  slave, 
The  sins  of  emptiness,  gossip  and  spite 
And  slander,  die.    Better  not  be  at  all 
Than  not  be  noble.    Leave  us :  you  may  go : 
To-day  the  Lady  Psyche  will  harangue 
The  fresh  arrivals  of  the  week  before ; 
For  they  press  in  from  all  the  provinces, 
And  fill  the  hive.'.' 

She  spoke,  and  bowing  waved 
Dismissal:  back  again  we  crost  the  court 
To  Lady  Psyche's:  as  we  enter'd  in, 
There  sat  along  the  forms,  like  morning  doves 
That  sun  their  milky  bosoms  on  the  thatch, 
A  patient  range  of  pupils ;  she  herself 
Erect  behind  a  desk  of  satin-wood, 
A  quick  brunette,  well-moulded,  falcon-eyed, 
And  on  the  hither  side,  or  so  she  look'd, 
Of  twenty  summers.    At  her  left,  a  child, 
In  shining  draperies,  headed  like  a  star, 
Her  maiden  babe,  a  double  April  old, 
AglaTa  slept.    We  sat:  the  Lady  glanced: 
Then  Florian,  but  no  livelier  than  the  dame 
That  whisper'd  "Asses'  ears"  among  the  sedge, 
"My  sister."    "Comely  too  by  all  that's  fair," 
Said  Cyril.    "  O  hush,  hush  !"  and  she  began. 

"This  world  -was  once  a  fluid  haze  df  light, 
Till  toward  the  centre  set  the  starry  tides, 
And  eddied  into  suns,  that  wheeling  cast 
The  planets:  then  the  monster,  then  the  man; 
Tattoo'd  or  woaded,  winter-clad  in  skins, 
Raw  from  the  prime,  and  crushing  down  his  mate ; 
As  yet  we  find  in  barbarous  isles,  and  here 
Among  the  lowest." 

Thereupon  she  took 

A  bird's-eye  view  of  all  the  ungracious  past ; 
Glanced  at  the  legendary  Amazon 
As  emblematic  of  a  nobler  age ; 
Appraised  the  Lycian  custom,  spoke  of  those 
That  lay  at  wine  with  Lar  and  Lucumo; 
Ran  down  the  Persian,  Grecian,  Roman  lines 
Of  empire,  and  the  woman's  state  in  each, 
How  far  from  just ;  till,  warming  with  her  theme, 


She  fulmined  out  her  scorn  of  laws  Salique 

And  little-footed  China,  touch'd  on  Mahonic-t 

With  much  contempt,  and  came  to  chivalry : 

When  some  respect,  however  slight,  was  paid 

To  woman,  superstition  all  awry: 

However  then  commenced  the  dawn:  a  beam 

Had  slanted  forward,  falling  in  a  laud 

Of  promise  ;  fruit  would  follow.    Deep,  indeed, 

Their  debt  of  thanks  to  her  who  first  had  dared 

To  leap  the  rotten  pales  of  prejudice, 

Disyoke  their  necks  from  custom,  and  assert 

None  lordlier  than  themselves  but  that  which  made 

Woman  and  man.    She  had  founded  ;  they  must  build. 

Here  might  they  learn  whatever  men  were  taught : 

Let  them  not  fear :  some  said  their  heads  were  less : 

Some  men's  were  small ;  not  they  the  least  of  meii : 

For  often  fineness  compensated  size : 

Besides  the  brain  was  like  the  hand,  and  grew 

With  using;  thence  the  man's,  if  more,  was  more; 

He  took  advantage  of  his  strength  to  be 

First  in  the  field:  some  ages  had  been  lost; 

But  woman  ripen'd  earlier,  and  her  life 

Was  longer" ;  and  albeit  their  glorious  names 

Were  fewer,  scatter'd  stars,  yet  since  in  truth 

The  highest  is  the  measure  of  the  man, 

And  not  the  Kaffir,  Hottentot,  Malay, 

Nor  those  horn-handed  breakers  of  the  glebe, 

But  Homer,  Plato,  Vernlam ;  even  so 

With  woman:  and  in  arts  of  government 

Elizabeth  and  others ;  arts  of  war 

The  peasant  Joan  and  others ;  arts  of  grace 

Sappho  and  others  vied  with  any  man: 

And,  last  not  least,  she  who  had  left  her  place, 

And  bow'd  her  state  to  them,  that  they  might  grow 

To  use  and  power  on  this  Oasis,  lapt 

In  the  arms  of  leisure,  sacred  from  the  blight 

Of  ancient  influence  and  scorn." 

At  last 

She  rose  upon  a  wind  of  prophecy 
Dilating  on  the  future;  "everywhere 
Two  heads  in  council,  two  beside  the  hearth, 
Two  in  the  tangled  business  of  the  world, 
Two  in  the  liberal  offices  of  life, 
Two  plummets  dropt  for  one  to  sound  the  abyss 
Of  science,  and  the  secrets  of  the  mind  : 
Musician,  painter,  sculptor,  critic,  more  : 
And  everywhere  the  broad  and  bounteous  Earth 
Should  bear  a  double  growth  of  those  rare  souls, 
Poets,  whose  thoughts  enrich  the  blood  of  the  world." 

She  ended  here,  and  beckon'd  us:  the  rest 
Parted ;  and,  glowing  full-faced  welcome,  she 
Began  to  address  us,  and  was  moving  on 
In  gratulation,  till  as  when  a  boat 
Tacks,  and  the  slackeu'd  sail  flaps,  all  her  voice 
Faltering  and  fluttering  in  her  throat,  she  cried, 
"My  brother!"    "  Well,  my  sister."    "O,"  she  said, 
"What  do  you  here?  and  in  this  dress?  and  these? 
Why  who  are  these?  a  wolf  within  the  fold! 
A  pack  of  wolves  !  the  Lord  be  gracious  to  me ! 
A  plot,  a  plot,  a  plot  to  ruin  all  1" 
"No  plot,  no  plot,"  he  answer'd.    "Wretched  boy, 
How  saw  you  not  the  inscription  on  the  gate, 

LET   NO  MAN   ENTER  IN   ON   PAIN   OF  DEATH  ?" 

"And  if  I  had,"  he  answer'd,  "who  could  thiuk 

The  softer  Adams  of  your  Academe, 

O  sister,  Sirens  tho'  they  be,  were  such 

As  chanted  on  the  blanching  bones  of  men  ?" 

"  But  you  will  find  it  otherwise,"  she  said. 

"You  jest:  ill  jesting  with  edge-tools!  my  vow 

Binds  me  to  speak,  and  O  that  iron  will, 

That  axelike  edge  unturnable,  our  Head, 

The  Princess."    "Well  then,  Psyche,  take  my  life, 

And  nail  me  like  a  weasel  on  a  grange 

For  warning:  bury  me  beside  the  gate, 

And  cut  this  epitaph  above  my  bones; 

Here  lies  a  brother  by  a  sister  slain, 

All  for  the  common  good  of  womankind." 


THE  PRINCESS :  A  MEDLEY. 


87 


"Let  me  die  too,"  said  Cyril,  "having  seen 
And  heard  the  Lady  Psyche." 

I  struck  in: 

"  Albeit  so  mask'd,  Madam,  I  love  the  truth ; 
Receive  it ;  aiid  in  me  behold  the  Prince 
Your  countryman,  affianced  years  ago 
To  the  Lady  Ida:  here,  for  here  she  was, 
And  thus  (what  other  way  was  left?)  I  came." 
"O  Sir,  O  Prince,  I  have  no  country;  none; 
If  any,  this ;  but  none.    Whate'er  I  was 
Disrooted,  what  I  am  is  grafted  here. 
Affianced,  Sir?  love-whispers  may  not  breathe 
Within  this  vestal  limit,  and  how  should  I, 
Who  am  not  mine,  say,  live :  the  thunderbolt 
Hangs  silent;  but  prepare:  I  speak;  it  falls." 
"Yet  pause,"  I  said:  "for  that  inscription  there, 
I  think  no  more  of  deadly  lurks  therein, 
Than  in  a  clapper  clapping  in  a  garth, 
To  scare  the  fowl  from  fruit :  if  more  there  be, 
If  more  and  acted  on,  what  follows  ?  war ; 
Your  own  work  marr'd:  for  this  your  Academe, 
Whichever  side  be  Victor,  in  the  halloo 
Will  topple  to  the  trumpet  down,  and  pass 
With  all  fair  theories  only  made  to  gild 
A  stormless  summer."    "  Let  the  Princess  judge 
Of  that,"  she  said:  "farewell,  Sir— and  to  you. 
I  shudder  at  the  sequel,  but  I  go." 

"Are  you  that  Lady  Psyche,"  I  rejoin'd, 
"The  fifth  in  line  from  that  old  Florian, 
Yet  hangs  his  portrait  in  my  father's  hall 
(The  gaunt  old  Baron  with  his  beetle  brow 
Sun-shaded  in  the  heat  of  dusty  fights) 
As  he  bestrode  my  Grandsire,  when  he  fell, 
And  all  else  fled :  we  point  to  it,  and  we  say, 
The  loyal  warmth  of  Florian  is  not  cold, 
But  branches  current  yet- in  kindred  veins." 
"Are  you  that  Psyche,"  Florian  added,  "she 
With  whom  I  sang  about  the  morning  hills, 
Flung  ball,  flew  kite,  and  raced  the  purple  fly, 
And  snared  the  squirrel  of  the  glen  ?  are  you 
That  Psyche,  wont  to  bind  my  throbbing  brow, 
To  smooth  my  pillow,  mix  the  foaming  draught 
Of  fever,  tell  me  pleasant  tales,  and  read 
My  sickness  down  to  happy  dreams?  are  you 
That  brother-sister  Psyche,  both  in  one? 
You  were  that  Psyche,  but  what  are  you  now  ?" 
"You  are  that  Psyche,"  Cyril  said,  "for  whom 
I  would  be  that  forever  which  I  seem, 
Woman,  if  I  might  sit  beside  your  feet, 
And  glean  your  scatter'd  sapience." 

Then  once  more, 

"Are  you  that  Lady  Psyche,"  I  began, 
"  That  ou  her  bridal  morn  before  she  past 
From  all  her  old  companions,  when  the  king 
Kiss'd  her  pale  cheek,  declared  that  ancient  ties 
Would  still  be  dear  beyond  the  southern  hills ; 
That  were  there  any  of  our  people  there 
In  want  or  peril,  there  was  one  to  hear 
And  help  them:  look!  for  such  are  these  and  I." 
"Are  you  that  Psyche,"  Florian  ask'd,  "to  whom, 
In  gentler  days,  your  arrow-wounded  fawn 
Came  flying  while  you  sat  beside  the  well  ? 
The  creature  laid  his  muzzle  on  your  lap, 
And  sobb'd,  and  you  sobb'd  with  it,  and  the  blood 
Was  sprinkled  on  your  kirtle,  and  yon  wept. 
That  was  fawn's  blood,  not  brother's,  yet  yon  wept 
O  by  the  bright  head  of  my  little  niece, 
Yon  were  that  Psyche,  and  what  are  you  now?" 
"You  are  that  Psyche,"  Cyril  said  again, 
"  The  mother  of  the  sweetest  little  maid, 
That  ever  crow'd  for  kisses." 

"Out  upon  it!" 

She  answer'd,  "  peace !  and  why  should  I  not  play 
The  Spartan  Mother  with  emotion,  be 
The  Lucius  Jnnius  Brutus  of  my  kind  ? 
Him  you  call  great:  he  for  the  common  weal, 
The  fading  politics  of  mortal  Rome, 


As  I  might  slay  this  child,  if  good  need  were, 

Slew  both  his  sons:  and  I,  shall  I,  on  whom 

The  'secular  emancipation  turns 

Of  half  this  world,  be  swerved  from  right  to  save 

A  prince,  a  brother  ?  a  little  will  I  yield. 

Best  so,  perchance,  for  us,  and  well  for  you. 

0  hard,  when  love,  and  duty  clash !    I  fear 

My  conscience  will  not  count  me  fleckless ;  yet — 

Hear  my  conditions:  promise  (otherwise 

You  perish)  as  you  came  to  slip  away, 

To-day,  to-morrow,  soon :  it  shall  be  said, 

These  women  are  too  barbarous,  would  not  learn ; 

They  fled,  who  might  have  shamed  us:  promise,  all." 

What  could  we  else,  we  promised  each ;  and  she, 
Like  some  wild  Creature  newly  caged,  commenced 
A  to-and-fro,  so  pacing  till  she  paused 
By  Florian;  holding  out  her  lily  arms 
Took  both  his  hands,  and  smiling  faintly  said: 
"I  knew  you  at  the  first;  tho'  you  have  grown 
You  scarce  have  alter'd:  I  am  sad  and  glad 
To  see  you,  Florian.    /  give  thee  to  death, 
My  brother !  it  was  duty  spoke,  not  I. 
My  needful  seeming  harshness,  pardon  it. 
Our  mother,  is  she  well  ?" 

With  that  she  kiss'd 

His  forehead,  then,  a  moment  after,  clung 
About  him,  and  betwixt  them  blossom'd  up 
From  out  a  common  vein  of  memory 
Sweet  household  talk,  and  phrases  of  the  hearth, 
And  far  allusion,  till  the  gracious  dews 
Began  to  glisten  and  to  fall:  and  while 
They  stood,  so  rapt,  we  gazing,  came  a  voice, 
"I  brought  a  message  here  from  Lady  Blanche." 
Back  started  she,  and  turning  round  we  saw 
The  Lady  Blanche's  daughter  where  she  stood, 
Melissa,  with  her  hand  upon  the  lock. 
A  rosy  blonde,  and  in  a  college  gown, 
That  clad  her  like  an  April  daffodilly 
(Her  mother's  color)  with  her  lips  apart, 
And  all  her  thoughts  as  fair  within  her  eyes, 
As  bottom  agates  seen  to  wave  and  float 
In  crystal  currents  of  clear  morning  seas. 

So  stood  that  same  fair  creature  at  the  door. 
Then  Lady  Psyche,  "Ah— Melissa — you! 
Yon  heard  us  ?"  and  Melissa,  "  O  pardon  me ! 

1  heard,  I  could  not  help  it,  did  not  wish : 
But,  dearest  Lady,  pray  you  fear  me  not, 

Nor  think  I  bear  that  heart  within  my  breast, 

To  give  three  gallant  gentlemen  to  death." 

"I  trust  you, "said  the  other,  "for  we  two 

Were  always  friends,  none  closer,  elm  and  vine: 

But  yet  your  mother's  jealous  temperament — 

Let  not  your  prudence,  dearest,  drowse,  or  prove 

The  Danaid  of  a  leaky  vase,  for  fear 

This  whole  foundation  ruin,  and  I  lose 

My  honor,  these  their  lives."    "Ah,  fear  me  not," 

Replied  Melissa;  "no — I  would  not  tell, 

No,  not  for  all  Aspasia's  cleverness, 

No,  not  to  answer,  Madam,  all  those  hard  things 

That  Sheba  came  to  ask  of  Solomon." 

"  Be  it  so,"  the  other,  "  that  we  still  may  lead 

The  new  light  up,  and  culminate  in  peace, 

For  Solomon  may  come  to  Sheba  yet" 

Said  Cyril,  "  Madam,  he  the  wisest  man 

!  Feasted  the  woman  wisest  then,  in  halls 

|  Of  Lebanonian  cedar :  nor  should  you 
(Tho'  Madam  you  should  answer,  we  would  ask) 
Less  welcome  find  among  us,  if  you  came 
Among  us,  debtors  for  our  lives  to  yon, 
Myself  for  something  more."    He  said  not  what, 
But  "Thanks,"  she  answer'd,  "go:  we  have  been 

too  long 

Together :  keep  your  hoods  about  the  face ; 
They  do  so  that  affect  abstraction  here. 
Speak  little ;  mix  not  with  the  rest ;  and  hold 
Your  promise :  all,  I  trust,  may  yet  be  well." 


88 


THE  PRINCESS:  A  MEDLEY. 


We  turn'd  to  go,  but  Cyril  took  the  child, 
And  held  her  round  the  knees  against  his  waist, 
And  blew  the  swoll'n  cheek  of  a  trumpeter, 
While  Psyche  watch'd  them,  smiling,  and  the  child 
Pash'd  her  flat  hand  against  his  face  and  laugh'd ; 
And  thus  our  conference  closed. 

And  then  we  strolled 
For  half  the  day  thro'  stately  theatres 
Bench'd  crescent-wise.    In  each  we  sat,  we  heard 
The  grave  Professor.    On  the  lecture  slate 
The  circle  rounded  under  female  hands 
With  flawless  demonstration:  follow'd  then 
A  classic  lecture,  rich  in  sentiment, 
With  scraps  of  thunderous  Epic  lilted  out 
By  violet-hooded  Doctors,  elegies 
And  quoted  odes,  and  jewels  five-words-long 
That  on  the  stretch'd  forefinger  of  all  Time 
Sparkle  forever :  then  we  dipt  in  all 
That  treats  of  whatsoever  is,  the  state, 
The  total  chronicles  of  man,  the  mind, 
The  morals,  something  of  the  frame,  the  rock, 
The  star,  the  bird,  the  fish,  the  shell,  the  flower, 
Electric,  chemic  laws,  and  all  the  rest, 
And  whatsoever  can  be  taught  and  known ; 
Till  like  three  horses  that  have  broken  fence, 
And  glutted  all  night  long  breast-deep  in  corn, 
We  issued  gorged  with  knowledge,  and  I  spoke : 
"  Why,  Sirs,  they  do  all  this  as  well  as  we." 
"They  hunt  old  trails,"  said  Cyril,  "very  well; 
But  when  did  woman  ever  yet  invent?" 
"  Ungracious  1"  answer'd  Florian,  "  have  you  learnt 
No  more  from  Psyche's  lecture,  you  that  talk'd 
The  trash  that  made  me  sick,  and  almost  sad  f " 
"O  trash,"  he  said,  "but  with  a  kernel  in  it. 
Should  I  not  call  her  wise,  who  made  me  wise  ? 
And  learnt?  I  learnt  more  from  her  in  a  flash, 
Than  if  my  brainpan  were  an  empty  hull, 
And  every  Muse  tumbled  a  science  in. 
A  thousand  hearts  lie  fallow  in  these  halls, 
And  round  these  halls  a  thousand  baby  loves 
Fly  twanging  headless  arrows  at  the  hearts, 
Whence  follows  many  a  vacant  pang:  but  O 
With  me,  Sir,  enter'd  in  the  bigger  boy, 
The  Head  of  all  the  golden-shafted  firm, 
The  long-limb'd  lad  that  had  a  Psyche  too; 
He  cleft  me  thro'  the  stomacher;  and  now 
What  think  you  of  it,  Florian?  do  I  chase 
The  substance  or  the  shadow  ?  will  it  hold  ? 
I  have  no  sorcerer's  malison  on  me, 
No  ghostly  hanntings  like  his  Highness.    I 
Flatter  myself  that  always  everywhere 
I  know  the  substance  when  I  pee  it.    Well, 
Are  castles  shadows  ?    Three  of  them  ?    Is  she 
The  sweet  proprietress  a  shadow  ?    If  not, 
Shall  those  three  castles  patch  my  tatter'd  coat  ? 
For  dear  are  those  three  castles  to  my  wants, 
And  dear  is  sister  Psyche  to  my  heart, 
And  two  dear  things  are  one  of  double  "worth, 
And  much  I  might  have  said,  but  that  my  zone 
Unmann'd  me :  then  the  Doctors  !    O  to  hear 
The  Doctors !    O  to  watch  the  thirsty  plants 
Imbibing !  once  or  twice  I  thought  to  roar, 
To  break  my  chain,  to  shake  my  mane :  but  thou, 
Modulate  me,  Soul  of  mincing  mimicry ! 
Make  liquid  treble  of  that  bassoon,  my  throat ; 
Abase  those  eyes  that  ever  loved  to  meet 
Star-sisters  answering  under  crescent  brows ; 
Abate  the  stride,  which  speaks  of  man,  and  loose 
A  flying  charm  of  blushes  o'er  this  cheek, 
Where  they  like  swallows  coming  out  of  time 
Will  wonder  why  they  came  t  but  hark  the  bell 
For  dinner,  let  us  go  !" 

And  in  we  stream'd 

Among  the  columns,  pacing  staid  and  still 
By  twos  and  threes,  til!  all  from  end  to  end 
With  beauties  every  shade  of  brown  and  fair, 
In  colors  gayer  than  the  morning  mist, 
The  long  hall  gljtter'd  like  a  bed  of  flowers. 


How  might  a  man  not  wander  from  his  wits 
Pierced  thro'  with  eyes,  but  that  I  kept  mine  own 
Intent  on  her,  who  rapt  in  glorious  dreams, 
The  second-sight  of  some  Astrsean  age, 
Sat  compass'd  with  professors :  they,  the  while, 
Discuss'd  a  doubt  and  tost  it  to  and  fro: 
A  clamor  thicken'd,  mixt  with  inmost  terms 
Of  art  and  science :  Lady  Blanche  alone 
Of  faded  form  and  haughtiest  lineaments, 
With  all  her  Autumn  tresses  falsely  brown, 
Shot  sidelong  daggers  at  us,  a  tiger-cat 
In  act  to  spring. 

At  last  a  solemn  grace 

Concluded,  and  we  sought  the  gardens:  there 
One  walk'd  reciting  by  herself,  and  one 
In  this  hand  held  a  volume  as  to  read, 
And  smoothed  a  petted  peacock  down  with  that : 
Some  to  a  low  song  oar'd  a  shallop  by, 
Or  under  arches  of  the  marble  bridge 
Hung,  shadow'd  from  the  heat :  some  hid  and  sought 
In  the  orange  thickets :  others  tost  a  ball 
Above  the  fountain-jets,  and  back  agaiu 
With  laughter:  others  lay  about  the  lawns, 
Of  the  older  sort,  and  murmur'd  that  their  May 
Was  passing:  what  was  learning. unto  them? 
They  wish'd  to  marry ;  they  could  rule  a  house ; 
Men  hated  learned  women :  but  we  three 
Sat  muffled  like  the  Fates ;  and  often  came 
Melissa  hitting  all  we  saw  with  shafts 
Of  gentle  satire,  kin  to  charity, 
That  harni'd  not :  then  day  droopt ;  the  chapel  bells 
Call'd  us :  we  left  the  walks  ;  we  mixt  with  those 
Six  hundred  maidens  clad  in  purest  white, 
Before  two  streams  of  light  from  wall  to  wall, 
While  the  great  organ  almost  burst  his  pipes, 
Groaning  for  power,  and  rolling  thro'  the  court 
A  long  melodious  thunder' to  the  sound 
Of  solemn  psalms,  and  silver  litanies, 
The  work  of  Ida,  to  call  down  from  Heaven 
A  blessing  on  her  labors  for  the  world. 


Sweet  and  low,  sweet  and  low, 

Wind  of  the  western  sea, 
Low,  low,  breathe  and  blow, 

Wind  of  the  western  sea  ! 
Over  the  rolling  waters  go, 
Come  from  the  dying  moon,  and  blow, 

Blow  him  again  to  me ; 
While  my  little  one,  while  my  pretty  one,  sleeps. 

Sleep  and  rest,  sleep  and  rest, 

Father  will  come  to  thee  soon ; 
Rest,  rest,  on  mother's  breast, 

Father  will  come  to  thee  soon ; 
Father  will  come  to  his  babe  in  the  nest, 
Silver  sails  all  out  of  the  west 

Under  the  silver  moon: 
Sleep,  my  little  one,  sleep,  my  pretty  one,  sleep. 

III. 

MOBN  in  the  white  wake  of  the  morning  star 
Came  furrowing  all  the  orient  into  gold. 
We  rose,  and  each  by  other  drest  with  care 
Descended  to  the  court  that  lay  three  parts 
In  shadow,- but  the  Muses'  heads  were  touch'd 
Above  the  darkness  from  their  native  East. 

There  while  we  stood  beside  the  fount,  and  watch'd 
Or  seem'd  to  watch  the  dancing  bubble,  approach'd 
Melissa,  tinged  with  wan  from  lack  of  sleep, 
Or  grief,  and  glowing  round  her  dewy  eyes 
The  circled  Iris  of  a  night  of  tears ; 
"And  fly,"  she  cried,  "O  fly,  while  yet  you  may! 
My  mother  knows:"  and  when  I  ask'd  her  "how," 
"  My  fault,"  she  wept,  "  my  fault !  and  yet  not  mine  ; 
Yet  mine  in  part.    O  hear  me,  pardon  me. 
My  mother,  't  is  her  wont  from  night  to  night 


THE  PRINCESS:  A  MEDLEY. 


8D 


To  rail  at  Lady  Psyche  and  her  side. 

She  says  the  Princess  should  have  been  the  Head, 

Herself  and  Lady  Psyche  the  two  arms ; 

And  so  it  was  agreed  when  first  they  came; 

But  Lady  Psyche  was  the  right  hand  now, 

And  she  the  left,  or  not,  or  seldom  used ; 

Hers  more  than  half  the  students,  all  the  love. 

And  so  last  night  she  fell  to  canvass  you: 

' Her  countrywomen!  she  did  not  envy  her. 

Who  ever  saw  such  wild  barbarians? 

Girls  ? — more  like   men !'   and  at   these  words  the 

snake, 

My  secret,  seem'd  to  stir  within  my  breast ; 
And  O,  Sirs,  could  I  help  it,  but  my  cheek 
Began  to  burn  and  burn,  and  her  lynx  eye 
To  fix  and  make  me  hotter,  till  she  laugh'd: 
'O  marvellously  modest  maiden,  you! 
Men  !  girls,  like  men  !  why,  if  they  had  been  men 
You  need  not  set  your  thoughts  in  rubric  thus 
For  wholesale  comment.'    Pardon,  I  am  shamed 
That  I  must  needs  repeat  for  my  excuse 
What  looks  so  little  graceful :  '  men '  (for  still 
My  mother  went  revolving  on  the  word) 
'And  so  they  are, — very  like  men  indeed — 
And  with  that  woman  closeted  for  hours  !' 
'Why — these — are  — men:'   I  shudder'd:    'and  you 

know  it.' 

Then  came  these  dreaJful  words  out  one  by  one, 
'O  ask  me  nothing,' I  said:  'And  she  knows  too, 
And  she  conceals  it'    So  my  mother  clntch'd 
The  truth  at  once,  but  with  no  word  from  me ; 
And  now  thus  early  risen  she  goes  to  inform 
The  Princess:  Lady  Psyche  will  be  crnsh'd; 
But  you  may  yet  be  saved,  and  therefore  fly: 
But  heal  me  with  your  pardon  ere  your  go." 

"  What  pardon,  sweet  Melissa,  for  a  blush  ?" 
Said  Cyril:  "Pale  one,  blush  again:  than  wear 
Those  lilies,  better  blush  our  lives  away. 
Yet  let  us  breathe  for  one  hour  more  in  Heaven," 
He  added,  "lest  some  classic  Angel  speak 
In  scorn  of  us, '  they  mounted,  Ganymedes, 
To  tumble,  Vulcans,  on  the  second  morn.' 
But  I  will  melt  this  marble  into  wax 
To  yield  us  farther  furlough :"  and  he  went. 

Melissa  shook  her  doubtful  curls,  and  thought 
He  scarce  would  prosper.   "Tell  us,"  Florian  ask'd, 
"How  grew  this  feud  betwixt  the  right  and  left." 
"O  long  ago,"  she  said,  "betwixt  these  two 
Division  smoulders  hidden :  't  is  my  mother, 
Too  jealous,  often  fitful  as  the  wind 
Pent  in  a  crevice :  much  I  bear  with  her : 
I  never  knew  my  father,  but  she  says 
(God  help  her)  she  was  wedded  to  a  fool ; 
And  still  she  rail'd  against  the  state  of  things. 
She  had  the  care  of  Lady  Ida's  youth, 
And  from  the  Queen's  decease  she  brought  her  up. 
But  when  your  sister  came  she  won  the  heart 
Of  Ida :  they  were  still  together,  grew 
(For  so  they  said  themselves)  inosculated ; 
Consonant  chords  that  shiver  to  one  note : 
One  mind  in  all  things :  yet  my  mother  still 
Affirms  your  Psyche  thieved  her  theories, 
And  angled  with  them  for  her  pupil's  love: 
She  calls  her  plagiarist ;  I  know  not  what : 
But  I  must  go  :  I  dare  not  tarry,"  and  light, 
As  flies  the  shadow  of  a  bird,  she  fled. 

Then  murmnr'd  Florian,  gazing  after  her: 
"An  open-hearted  maiden,  true  and  pure. 
If  I  could  love,  why  this  were  she :  how  pretty 
Her  blushing  was,  and  how  she  blnsh'd  again, 
As  if  to  close  with  Cyril's  random  wish : 
Not  like  your  Princess  cramm'd  with  erring  pride, 
Nor  like  poor  Psyche  whom  she  drags  in  tow." 

"The  crane,"  I  said,  "may  chatter  of  the  crane, 
The  dove  may  murmur  of  the  dove,  but  I 


An  eagle  clang  an  eagle  to  the  sphere. 

My  princess,  O  my  princess !  true  she  errs, 

But  in  her  own  grand  way;  being  herself 

Three  times  more  noble  than  three-score  of  men, 

She  sees  herself  in  every  woman  else, 

And  so  she  wears  her  error  like  a  crown 

To  blind  the  truth  and  me :  for  her,  and  her, 

Hebes  are  they  to  hand  ambrosia,  mix 

The  nectar ;  but — ah  she — whene'er  she  moves 

The  Samian  Here  rises  and  she  speaks 

A  Memnon  smitten  with  the  morning  Sun.1' 

So  saying,  from  the  court  we  paced,  and  gain'd 
The  terrace  ranged  along  the  Northern  front, 
And  leaning  there  on  those  balusters,  high 
Above  the  empurpled  champaign,  drank  the  gale 
That  blown  about  the  foliage  underneath, 
And  sated  with  the  innumerable  rose, 
Beat  balm  upon  our  eyelids.    Hither  came 
Cyril,  and  yawning  "O  hard  task,"  he  cried: 
"  No  fighting  shadows  here  '.    I  forced  a  way 
Thro'  solid  opposition  crabb'd  and  gnarl'd. 
Belter  to  clear  prime  forests,  heave  and  thump 
A  league  of  street  in  summer  solstice  down, 
Than  hammer  at  this  reverend  gentlewoman. 
I  knock'd  and,  bidden,  enter'd :  found  her  there 
At  point  to  move,  and  settled  in  her  eyes 
The  green  malignant  light  of  coming  storm. 
Sir,  I  was  courteous,  every  phrase  well-oil'd, 
As  man's  could  be;  yet  maiden-meek  I  pray'd 
Concealment :  she  demanded  who  we  were, 
And  why  we  came  ?    I  fabled  nothing  fair, 
But,  your  example  pilot,  told  her  all. 
Up  went  the  hush'd  amaze  of  hand  and  eye. 
But  when  I  dwelt  upon  your  old  affiance, 
She  answer'd  sharply  that  I  talk'd  astray. 
I  urged  the  fierce  inscription  on  the  gate, 
And  our  three  lives.    True — we  had  limed  ourselves, 
With  open  eyes,  and  we  must  take  the  chance. 
But  such  extremes,  I  told  her,  well  might  harm 
The  woman's  cause.     'Not  more   than   now,'  she 

said, 

'So  puddled  as  it  is  with  favoritism.' 
I  tried  the  mother's  heart.    Shame  might  befall 
Melissa,  knowing,  saying  not  she  knew: 
Her  answer  was,  '  Leave  me  to  deal  with  that.' 
I  spoke  of  war  to  come  and  many  deaths, 
And  she  replied,  her  duty  was  to  speak, 
And  duty  duty,  clear  of  consequences. 
I  grew  discouraged,  Sir,  but  since  I  knew 
No  rock  so  hard  but  that  a  little  wave 
May  beat  admission  in  a  thousand  years, 
I  recommenced:  'Decide  not  ere  you  pause. 
I  find  you  here  but  in  the  second  place, 
Some  say  the  third — the  authentic  foundress  you. 
I  offer  boldly :  we  will  seat  you  highest : 
Wink  at  our  advent :  help  my  prince  to  gain 
His  rightful  bride,  and  here  I  promise  you 
Some  palace  in  our  land,  where  you  shall  reign 
The  head  and  heart  of  all  our  fair  she-world, 
And  your  great  name  flow  on  with  broadening  time 
Forever.'    Well,  she  balanced  this  a  little, 
And  told  me  she  would  answer  us  to-day, 
Meantime  be  mute:  thus  much,  nor  more  I  gain'd." 

He  ceasing,  came  a  message  from  the  Head. 
"  That  afternoon  the  Princess  rode  to  take 
The  dip  of  certain  strata  to  the  North. 
Would  we  go  with  her  ?  we  should  find  the  land 
Worth  seeing ;  and  the  river  made  a  fall 
Out  yonder;"  then  she  pointed  on  to  where 
A  double  hill  ran  up  his  furrowy  forks 
Beyond  the  thick-leaved  platans  of  the  vale. 

Agreed  to,  this,  the  day  fled  on  thro'  all 
Its  range  of  duties  to  the  appointed  hour. 
Then  summon'd  to  the  porch  we  went.    She  stood 
Among  her  maidens,  higher  by  the  head, 


90 


THE  PRINCESS:  A  MEDLEY. 


Her  back  against  a  pillar,  her  foot  on  one 

Of  those  tame  leopards.    Kittenlike  he  roll'd 

And  paw'd  about  her  sandal.    I  drew  near : 

I  gazed.    On  a  sudden  my  strange  seizure  came 

Upon  me,  the  weird  vision  of  our  house : 

The  Princess  Ida  seem'd  a  hollow  show, 

Her  gay-furr'd  cats  a  painted  fantasy, 

Her  college  and  her  maidens,  empty  masks, 

And  I  myself  the  shadow  of  a  dream, 

For  all  things  were  and  were  not.    Yet  I  felt 

My  heart  beat  thick  with  passion  and  with  awe; 

Then  from  my  breast  the  involuntary  sigh 

Brake,  as  she  smote  me  with  the  light  of  eyes 

That  lent  my  knee  desire  to  kneel,  and  shook 

My  pulses,  till  to  horse  we  got,  and  so 

Went  forth  in  long  retinue  following  up 

The  river  as  it  narrow'd  to  the  hills. 

I  rode  beside  her  and  to  me  she  said: 
"O  friend,  we  trust  that  you  esteem'd  us  not 
Too  harsh  to  your  companion  yester-morn ; 
Uuwilliugly  we  spake."    "No— not  to  her," 
I  answer'd,  "but  to  one  of  whom  we  spake 
Your  Highness  might  have  seem'd  the  thing  you  say." 
"Again?"  she  cried,  "are  you  ambassadresses 
From  him  to  me  f  'we  give  you,  being  strange, 
A  license:  speak,  and  let  the  topic  die." 

I  stammer'd  that  I  knew  him— could  have  wish'd— 
"Our  king  expects — was  there  no  precontract? 
There  is  no  truer-hearted — ah,  you  seem 
All  he  prefigured,  and  he  could  not  see 
The  bird  of  passage  flying  south  but  long'd 
To  follow :  surely,  if  your  Highness  keep 
Your  purport,  you  will  shock  him  ev'u  to  death, 
Or  baser  courses,  children  of  despair." 

"Poor  boy,"  she   said,   "can  he  not  read  —  no 

books  ? 

Quoit,  tennis,  ball— no  games  ?  nor  deals  in  that 
Which  men  delight  in,  martial  exercise? 
To  nurse  a  blind  ideal  like  a  girl, 
Methiuks  he  seems  no  better  than  a  girl ; 
As  girls  were  once,  as  we  ourself  have  been ; 
We  had  our  dreams — perhaps  he  mixt  with  them : 
We  touch  on  our  dead  self,  nor  shun  to  do  it, 
Being  other — since  we  learnt  our  meaning  here, 
To  lift  the  woman's  fall'n  divinity, 
Upon  an  even  pedestal  with  man." 

She  paused,  and  added  with  a  haughtier  smile: 
"  And  as  to  precontracts,  we  move,  my  friend, 
At  no  man's  beck,  but  know  ourself  and  thee, 

0  Vashti,  noble  Vashti !    Summon'd  out 

She  kept  her  state,  and  left  the  drunken  king 
To  brawl  at  Shushan  underneath  the  palms." 

"Alas  your  Highness  breathes  full  East,"  I  said, 
"  On  that  which  leans  to  you.     I  know  the  "Prince, 

1  prize  his  truth :  and  then  how  vast  a  work 
To  assail  this  gray  pre-eminence  of  man  1 
Yon  grant  me  license;  might  I  use  it?  think, 
Ere  half  be  done  perchance  your  life  may  fail ; 
Then  comes  the  feebler  heiress  of  your  plan, 
And  takes  and  ruins  all ;  and  thus  your  pains 
May  only  make  that  footprint  upon  sand 
Which  old-recurring  waves  of  prejudice 
Resmooth  to  nothing :  might  I  dread  that  you, 
With  only  Fame  for  spouse  and  your  great  deeds 
For  issue,  yet  may  live  in  vain,  and  miss, 
Meanwhile,  what  every  woman  counts  her  due, 
Love',  children,  happiness  ?" 

And  she  exclaim'd, 

"  Peace,  you  young  savage  of  the  Northern  wild  ! 
What !    tho'  your  Prince's  love  were  like  a  God's, 
Have  we  not  made  ourself  the  sacrifice  ? 
You  are  bold  indeed :  we  are  not  talk'd  to  thus : 
Yet  will  we  say  for  children,  would  they  grew, 


Like  field-flowers  everywhere !  we  like  them  well : 
But  children  die ;  and  let  me  tell  you,  girl, 
Howe'er  you  babble,  great  deeds  cannot  die: 
They  with  the  sun  and  moon  renew  their  light 
Forever,  blessing  those  that  look  on  them. 
Children— that  men  may  pluck  them  from  our  hearts, 
Kill  us  with  pity,  break  us  with  ourselves — 
O— children — there  is  nothing  upon  earth 
More  miserable  than  she  that  has  a  son 
And  sees  him  err :  nor  would  we  work  for  fame ; 
Tho'  she  perhaps  might  reap  the  applause  of  Great, 
Who  learns  the  one  POU  STO  whence  afterhands 
May  move  the  world,  tho'  she  herself  effect 
But  little :  wherefore  up  and  act,  nor  shrink 
For  fear  our  solid  aim  be  dissipated 
By  frail  successors.    Would,  indeed,  we  had  been, 
In  lieu  of  many  mortal  flies,  a  race 
Of  giants  living,  each,  a  thousand  years, 
That  we  might  see  our  own  work  out,  and  watch 
The  sandy  footprint  harden  into  stone." 

I  answer'd  nothing,  doubtful  in  myself 
If  that  strange  Poet-princess  with  her  grand 
Imaginations  might  at  all  be  won. 
And  she  broke  out  interpreting  my  thoughts: 

"No  doubt  we  seem  a  kind  of  monster  to  you; 
We  are  used  to  that:  for  women,  up  till  this 
Cramp'd  under  worse  than  Sonth-sea-isle  taboo, 
Dwarfs  of  the  gynaeceum,  fail  so  far 
In  high  desire,  they  know  not,  cannot  guess 
How  much  their  welfare  is  a  passion  to  us. 
If  we  could  give  them  surer,  quicker  proof— 
O  if  our  end  were  less  achievable 
By  slow  approaches,  than  by  single  act 
Of  immolation,  any  phase  of  death, 
We  were  as  prompt  to  spring  against  the  pikes, 
Or  down  the  fiery  gulf  as  talk  of  it, 
To  compass  our  dear  sisters'  liberties." 

She  bow'd  as  if  to  veil  a  noble  tear ; 
And  np  we  came  to  where  the  river  sloped 
To  plunge  in  cataract,  shattering  on  black  blocks 
A  breath  of  thunder.    O'er  it  shook  the  woods, 
And  danced  the  color,  and,  below,  stuck  out 
The  bones  of  some  vast  bulk  that  lived  and  roar'd 
Before  man  was.    She  gazed  awhile  and  said, 
"  As  these  rude  bones  to  us,  are  we  to  her 
That  will  be."    "Dare  we  dream  of  that,"  I  ask'd, 
"Which  wrought  us,  as  the  workman  and  his  work, 
That  practice  betters  ?"  "  How,"  she  cried,  "  you  love 
The  metaphysics !  read  and  earn  our  prize, 
A  golden  broach:  beneath  an  emerald  plane 
Sits  Diotima,  teaching  him  that  died 
Of  hemlock ;  our  device ;  wrought  to  the  life ; 
She  rapt  upon  her  subject,  he  on  her : 
For  there  are  schools  for  all."    "  And  yet,"  I  said, 
"Methinks  1  have  not  found  among  them  all 
One  anatomic."    "Nay,  we  thought  of  that," 
She  answer'd,  "  but  it  pleased  us  not :  in  truth    . 
We  shudder  but  to  dream  our  maids  should  ape 
Those  monstrous  males  that  carve  the  living  hound, 
And  cram  him  with  the  fragments  of  the  grave, 
Or  in  the  dark  dissolving  human  heart, 
And  holy  secrets  of  this  microcosm, 
Dabbling  a  shameless  hand  with  shameful  jest, 
Encarnalize  their  spirits :  yet  we  know 
Knowledge  is  knowledge,  and  this  matter  hangs-. 
Howbeit  ourself,  foreseeing  casualty, 
Nor  willing  men  should  come  among  us,  learnt, 
For  many  weary  moons  before  we  came, 
This  craft  of  healing.    Were  you  sick,  ourself 
Would  tend  upon  yon.    To  your  question  now, 
Which  touches  on  the  workman  and  his  work. 
Let  there  be  light  and  there  was  light:  't  is  sot 
For  was,  and  is,  and  will  be,  are  but  is ; 
And  all  creation  is  one  act  at  once, 
The  birth  of  light :  but  we  that  are  not  all, 


THE  PRIXCESS:  A  MEDLEY. 


As  parts,  can  see  but  parts,  now  this,  now  that, 
And  live,  perforce,  from   thought   to   thought,  and 

make 

One  act  a  phantom  of  succession :  thus 
Our  weakness  somehow  shapes  the  shadow,  Time ; 
But  in  the  shadow  will  we  work,  and  mould 
The  woman  to  the  fuller  day." 

She  spake 

With  kindled  eyes :  we  rode  a  league  beyond, 
And,  o'er  a  bridge  of  piuewood  crossing,  came 
On  flowery  levels  underneath  the  crag, 
Full  of  all  beauty.    "O  how  sweet,"  I  said, 
(For  I  was  half-oblivious  of  my  mask,) 
"  To  liuger  here  with  one  that  loved  us."    "  Yea," 
She  answer'd,  "or  with  fair  philosophies 
That  lift  the  fancy ;  for  indeed  these  fields 
Are  lovely,  lovelier  not  the  Elysiau  lawns, 
Where  paced  the  Demigods  of  old,  and  saw 
The  soft  white  vapor  streak  the  crowned  towers 
Built  t.o  the  Sun :"  then,  turning  to  her  maids, 
"Pitch  our  pavilion  here  upon  the  sward; 
Lay  out  the  viands."    At  the  word,  they  raised 
A  tent  of  satin,  elaborately  wrought 
With  fair  Corinna's  triumph ;  here  she  stood, 
Engirt  with  many  a  florid  maiden-cheek, 
The  woman-conqueror:  womau-conquer'd  there 
The  bearded  Victor  of  ten-thousand  hymns, 
And  all  the  men  mourn'd  at  his  side :  but  we 
Set  forth  to  climb ;  then,  climbing,  Cyril  kept 
With  Psyche,  with  Melissa  Florian,  I 
With  mine  affianced.    Many  a  little  hand 
Glanced  like  a  touch  of  sunshine  on  the  rocks, 
Many  a  light  foot  shone  like  a  jewel  set 
In  the  dark  crag :  and  then  we  turn'd,  we  wound 
About  the  cliffs,  the  copses,  out  and  in, 
Hammering  and  clinking,  chattering  stony  names 
Of  shale  and  hornblende,  rag  and  trap  and  tuff, 
Amygdaloid  and  trachyte,  till  the  Sun 
Grew  broader  toward  his  death  and  fell,  and  all 
The  rosy  heights  came  out  above  the  lawns. 


The  splendor  falls  on  castle  walls 

And  snowy  summits  old  in  story : 
The  long  light  shakes  across  the  lakes 
And  the  wild  cataract  leaps  in  glory. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  flying, 
Blow,  bugle  ;  answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying,  dying. 

O  hark,  O  hear !  how  thin  and  clear, 
And  thinner,  clearer,  farther  going  ! 
O  sweet  and  far  from  cliff  and  scar 

The  horns  of  Elfland  faintly  blowing ! 
Blow,  let  us  hear  the  purple  glens  replying : 
Blow,  bugle ;  answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying,  dying. 

O  love,  they  die  in  yon  rich  sky, 

They  faint  on  hill  or  field  or  river: 
Our  echoes  roll  from  soul  to  soul, 

And  grow  forever  and  forever. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  flying, 
And  answer,  echoes,  answer,  dying,  dying,  dying. 

IV. 

"  TITEKE  sinks  the  nebulous  star  we  call  the  Sun, 
If  that  hypothesis  of  theirs  be  sound," 
Said  Ida ;  "  let  us  down  and  rest :"  and  we 
Down  from  the  lean  and  wrinkled  precipices, 
By  every  coppice-feather'd  chasm  and  cleft, 
Dropt  thro'  the  ambrosial  gloom  to  where  below 
No  bigger  than  a  glow-worm  shone  the  tent 
Lamp-lit  from  the  inner.    Once  she  lean'd  on  me, 
Descending ;  once  or  twice  she  lent  her  hand, 
And  blissful  palpitations  in  the  blood, 
Stirring  a  sudden  transport  rose  and  fell. 

But  when  we  planted  level  feet,  and  dipt 
Beneath  the  satin  dome  and  enter'd  in, 


There  leaning  deep  in  broider'd  down  we  sank 
Our  elbows:  on  a  tripod  in  the  midst 
A  fragrant  flame  rose,  and  before  us  glow'd 
Fruit,  blossom,  viand,  amber  wine,  and  gold. 

Then  she,  "Let  some  one  sing  to  us:  lightliei 

move 

The  minutes  fledged  with  music :"  and  a  maid, 
Of  those  beside  her,  smote  her  harp,  and  sang. 

"  Tears,  idle  tears,  I  know  not  what  they  mean, 
Tears  from  the  depth  of  some  divine  despair 
Rise  in  the  heart,  an'd  gather  to  the  eyes, 
In  looking  on  the  happy  Autumn-fields, 
And  thinking  of  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

"Fresh  as  the  first  beam  glittering  on  a  sail, 
That  brings  our  friends  up  from  the  underworld, 
Sad  as  the  last  which  reddens  over  one 
That  sinks  with  all  we  love  below  the  verge: 
So  sad,  so  fresh,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

"Ah,  sad  and  strange  as  in  dark  summer  dawn? 
The  earliest  pipe  of  half-awaken'd  birds 
To  dying  ears,  when  unto  dying  eyes 
The  casement  slowly  grows  a  glimmering  square; 
So  sad,  so  strange,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

"Dear  as  remember'd  kisses  after  death, 
And  sweet  as  those  by  hopeless  fancy  feign'd 
On  lips  that  are  for  others ;  deep  as  love, 
Deep  as  first  love,  and  wild  with  all  regret; 
O  Death  in  Life,  the  days  that  are  no  more." 

She  ended  with  such  passion  that  the  tear, 
She  sang  of,  shook  and  fell,  an  erring  pearl 
Lost  in  her  bosom :  but  with  some  disdain 
Answer'd  the  Princess:  "If  indeed  there  haunt 
About  the  monlder'd  lodges  of  the  Past 
So  sweet  a  voice  and  vague,  fatal  to  men, 
Well  needs  it  we  should  cram  our  ears  with  wool 
And  so  pace  by:  but  thine  are  fancies  hatch'd 
In  silken-folded  idleness ;  nor  is  it 
Wiser  to  weep  a  true  occasion  lost, 
But  trim  our  sails,  and  let  old  bygones  be, 
While  down  the  streams  that  float  us  each  and  all 
To  the  issue,  goes,  like  glittering  bergs  of  ice, 
Throne  after  throne,  and  molten  on  the  waste 
Becomes  a  cloud:  for  all  things  serve  their  time 
Toward  that  great  year  of  equal  mights  and  rights, 
Nor  would  I  fight  with  iron  laws,  in  the  end 
Found  golden :  let  the  past  be  past ;  let  be 
Their  cancell'd  Babels:  tho'  the  rough  kex  break 
The  starr'd  mosaic,  and  the  wild  goat  hang 
Upon  the  shaft,  and  the  wild  fig-tree  split 
Their  monstrous  idols,  care  not  while  we  hear 
A  trumpet  in  the  distance  pealing  news 
Of  better,  and  Hope,  a  poising  eagle,  burns 
Above  the  uurisen  morrow:"  then  to  me, 
"Know  yon  no  song  of  your  own  land,"  she  said, 
"Not  such  as  moans  about  the  retrospect, 
But  deals  with  the  other  distance  and  the  hues 
Of  promise ;  not  a  death's-head  at  the  wine." 

Then  I  remember'd  one  myself  had  made, 
What  time  I  watch'd  the  swallow  winging  south 
From  mine  own  land,  part  made  long  since,  and 

part 

Now  while  I  sang,  and  maidenlike  as  far 
As  I  could  ape  their  treble,  did  I  sing. 

"  O  Swallow,  Swallow,  flying,  flying  South, 
Fly  to  her,  and  fall  upon  her  gilded  eave?, 
And  tell  her,  tell  her  what  I  tell  to  thee. 

"  O  tell  her,  Swallow,  thou  that  knowest  each, 
That  bright  and  fierce  and  fickle  is  the  South, 
And  dark  and  true  and  tender  is  the  North. 


92 


THE  PRINCESS:  A  MEDLEY. 


"O  Swallow,  Swallow,  if  I  could  follow  and  light 
Upon  her  lattice,  I  would  pipe  and  trill, 
And  cheep  and  twitter  twenty  million  loves. 

"O  were  I  thou  that  she  might  take  me  in, 
And  lay  me  on  her  bosom,  and  her  heart 
Would  rock  the  snowy  cradle  till  I  died. 

"Why  lingereth  she  to  clothe  her  heart  with  love, 
Delaying  as  the  tender  ash  delays 
To  clothe  herself,  when  all  the  woods  are  green  ? 

"  O  tell  her,  Swallow,  that  thy  brood  is  flown  : 
Say  to  her,  I  do  but  wanton  in  the  South, 
But  in  the  North  long  since  my  nest  is  made. 

"  O  tell  her,  brief  is  life,  bat  love  is  long, 
And  brief  the  sun  of  summer  in  the  North, 
And  brief  the  moon  of  beauty  in  the  South. 

"  O  Swallow,  flying  from  the  golden  woods, 
Fly  to  her,  and  pipe  and  woo  her,  and  make  her 

mine, 
And  tell  her,  tell  her,  that  I  follow  thee." 

I  ceased,  and  all  the  ladies,  each  at  each, 
Like  the  Ithacensian  suitors  in  old  time, 
Stared  with  great  eyes,  and  laugh'd  wijii  alien  lips, 
And  knew  not  what  they  meant;  for  still  my  voice 
Rang  false:  but  smiling,  "Not  for  thee,"  she  said, 
"  O  Bnlbul,  any  rose  of  Gulistau 
Shall  burst  her  veil :  marsh-divers,  rather,  maid, 
Shall  croak  thee  sister,  or  the  meadow-crake 
Grate  her  harsh  kindred  in  the  grass :  and  this 
A  mere  love  poem  !    O  for  such,  my  friend, 
We  hold  them  slight:  they  mind  us  of  the  time 
When  we  made  bricks  in  Egypt.     Knaves  are  men, 
That  lute  and  flute  fantastic  tenderness, 
And  dress  the  victim  to  the  offering  up, 
And  paint  the  gates  of  Hell  with  Paradise, 
And  play  the  slave  to  gain  the  tyranny. 
Poor  soul !  I  had  a  maid  of  honor  once ; 
She  wept  her  true  eyes  blind  for  such  a  one, 
A  rogue  of  canzonets  and  serenades. 
I  loved  her.    Peace  be  with  her.    She  is  dead. 
So  they  blaspheme  the  muse !  but  great  is  song 
Used  to  great  ends :  ourself  have  often  tried 
Valkyrian  hymns,  or  into  rhythm  have  dash'd 
The  passion  of  the  prophetess ;  for  song 
Is  dner  unto  freedom,  force  and  growth 
Of  spirit,  than  to  junketing  and  love. 
Love  is  it  ?    Would  this  same  mock-love,  and  this 
Mock-Hymen  were  laid  up  like  winter  bats, 
Till  all  men  grew  to  rate  us  at  our  worth, 
Not  vassals  to  be  beat,  nor  pretty  babes 
To  be  dandled,  no,  but  living  wills,  and  sphered 
Whole  in  ourselves  and  owed  to  none.    Enough ! 
But  now  to  leaven  play  with  profit,  yon, 
Know  yon  no  song,  the  true  growth  of  your  soil, 
That  gives  the  manners  of  your  countrywomen  ?" 

She  spoke  and  tnrn'd  her  sumptuous  head  with 

eyes 

Of  shining  expectation  flxt  on  mine. 
Then  while  I  dragg'd  irty  brains  for  such  a  song, 
Cyril,  with  whom  the  bell-month'd  flask  had  wrought, 
Or  master'd  by  the  sense  of  sport,  began 
To  troll  a  careless,  careless  tavern-catch 
Of  Moll  and  Meg,  and  strange  experiences 
Unmeet  for  ladies.    Florian  nodded  at  him, 
I  frowning ;  Psyche  flnsh'd  and  wann'd  and  shook ; 
The  lilylike  Melissa  droop'd  her  brows; 
"Forbear,"  the  Princess  cried;  "Forbear,  Sir,"  I; 
And  heated  thro'  and  thro'  with  wrath  and  love, 
I  smote  him  on  the  breast ;  he  started  up ; 
There  rose  a  shriek  as  of  a  city  sack'd ; 
Melissa  clamor'd,  "Flee  the  death;"  "To  horse," 
Said  Ida ;  "  home !  to  horse !"  and  fled,  as  flies 


A  troop  of  snowy  doves  athwart  the  dusk, 

When  some  one  batters  at  the  dovecote  doors, 

Disorderly  the  women.    Alone  I  stood 

With  Florian,  cursing  Cyril,  vext  at  heart, 

In  the  pavilion:  there  like  parting  hopes 

I  heard  them  passing  from  me:  hoof  by  hoof, 

And  every  hoof  a  knell  to  my  desires, 

Glang'd  on  the  bridge ;  and  then  another  shriek, 

"  The  Head,  the  Head,  the  Princess,  O  the  Head  !" 

For  blind  with  rage  she  miss'd  the  plank,  and  roll'q 

In  the  river.    Out  I  sprang  from  glow  to  gloom: 

There  whirl'd  her  white  robe  like  a  blossom'd  branch 

Rapt  to  the  horrible  fall :  a  glance  I  gave, 

No  more  ;  but  woman-vested  as  I  was 

Plunged ;  and   the  flood  drew ;   yet  I  caught  her ; 

then 

Oaring  one  arm,  and  bearing  in  my  left 
The  weight  of  all  the  hopes  of  half  the  world, 
Strove  to  buffet  to  land  in  vain.    A  tree 
Was  half-disrooted  from  his  place  and  stoop'd 
To  drench  his  dark  locks  in  the  gurgling  wave 
Mid-channel.    Right  on  this  we  drove  and  caught, 
And  grasping  down  the  boughs  1  gain'd  the  shore. 

There  stood  her  maidens  glimmermgly  group'd 
In  the  hollow  bank.  One  reaching  forward  drew 
My  burthen  from  mine  arms;  they  cried,  "She 

lives !" 

They  bore  her  back  into  the  tent ;  but  I, 
So  much  a  kind  of  shame  within  me  wrought, 
Not  yet  endured  to  meet  her  opening  eyes, 
Nor  found  my  friends ;  but  push'd  alone  on  foot 
(For  since  her  horse  was  lost  I  left  her  mine) 
Across  the  woods,  and  less  from  Indian  craft 
Than  beelike  instinct  hiveward,  found  at  length 
The  garden  portals.    Two  great  statues,  Art 
And  Science,  Caryatids,  lifted  up 
A  weight  of  emblem,  and  betwixt  were  valves 
Of  open-work  in  which  the  hunter  rued 
His  rash  intrusion,  manlike,  but  his  brows 
Had  sprouted,  and  the  branches  thereupon 
Spread  out  at  top,  and  grimly  spiked  the  gates. 

A  little  space  was  left  between  the  horns, 
Thro'  which  I  clamber'd  o'er  at  top  with  pain, 
Dropt  on  the  sward,  and  up  the  linden  walks, 
And,  tost  on  thoughts  that  changed  from  hue  to  hue. 
Now  poring  on  the  glow-worm,  now  the  star, 
I  paced  the  terrace  till  the  bear  had  wheel'd 
Thro'  a  great  arc  his  seven  slow  suns. 

A  step 

Of  lightest  echo,  then  a  loftier  form 
Than  female,  moving  thro'  the  uncertain  gloom, 
Disturb'd  me  with  the  doubt  "if  this  were  she," 
But  it  was  Florian.    "Hist,  O  hist,"  he  said, 
"  They  seek  us:  out  so  late  is  out  of  rules. 
Moreover  '  Seize  the  strangers  '  is  the  cry. 
How  came  you  here?"    I  told  him:  "I,"  said  he, 
"  Last  of  the  train,  a  moral  leper,  I, 
To  whom  none  spake,  half-sick  at  heart,  return'd. 
Arriving  all  confused  among  the  rest 
With  hooded  brows  I  wept  into  the  hall, 
And,  couch'd  behind  a  Judith,  underneath 
The  head  of  Holofernes  peep'd  and  saw. 
Girl  after  girl  was  call'd  to  trial :  each 
Disclaim'd  all  knowledge  of  us :  last  of  all, 
Melissa :  trust  me,  Sir,  I  pitied  her. 
She,  qtiestion'd  if  she  knew  us  men,  at  first 
Was  silent;  closer  prest,  denied  it  not: 
And  then,  demanded  if  her  mother  knew, 
Or  Psyche,  she  afflrm'd  not,  or  denied : 
From  whence  the  Royal  mind,  familiar  with  her, 
Easily  gather'd  either  guilt.    She  sent 
For  Psyche,  but  she  was  not  there ;  she  call'd 
For  Psyche's  child  to  cast  it  from  the  doors  ; 
She  sent  for  Blanche  to  accuse  her  face  to  face. 
And  I  slipt  out:  but  whither  will  you  now? 
And  where  are  Psyche,  Cyril  ?  both  are  fled : 


THE  PRINCESS :  A  MEDLEY. 


93 


What,  if  together?  thst  were  not  so  well. 
Would  rather  we  had  never  come  !    I  dread 
His  wilduess,  and  the  chances  of  the  dark." 

"  And  yet,"  I  said,  "  you  wrong  him  more  than  I 
That  struck  him:  this  is  proper  to  the  clown, 
Tho'  smock'd,  or  furr'd  and  purpled,  still  the  clown, 
To  harm  the  thing  that  trusts  him,  and  to  shame 
That  which  he  says  he  loves :  for  Cyril,  howe'er 
He  deal  in  frolic,  as  to-night — ihe  song 
Might  have  been  worse  and  sinn'd  in  grosser  lips 
Beyond  all  pardon — as  it  is,  I  hold 
These  flashes  on  the  surface  are  uot  he. 
He  has  a  solid  base  of  temperament : 
But  as  the  water-lily  starts  and  slides 
Upon  the  level  in  little  puffs  of  wind, 
Tho'  anchor'd  to  the  bottom,  such  is  he." 

Scarce  had  I  ceased  when  from  a  tamarisk  near 
Two  Proctors  leapt  upon  us,  crying,  "  Names," 
He,  standing  still,  was  clutch'd ;  but  I  began 
To  thrid  the  musky-circled  mazes,  wind 
And  double  in  and  out  the  boles,  and  race 
By  all  the  fountains :  fleet  I  was  of  foot : 
Before  me  shower'd  the  rose  in  flakes ;  behind 
I  heard  the  puff'd  pursuer;  at  mine  ear 
Bubbled  the  nightingale  and  heeded  not, 
And  secret  laughter  tickled  all  my  soul. 
At  last  I  hook'd  my  ankle  in  a  vine, 
That  claspt  the  feet,  of  a  Mnemosyne,- 
And  falling  on  my  face  was  caught  and  known. 

They  haled  us  to  the  Princess  where  she  uat 
High  in  the  hall :  above  her  droop'd  a  lamp, 
And  made  the  single  jewel  qji  her  brow 
Burn  like  the  mystic  fire  on  a  mast-head, 
Prophet  of  storm :  a  handmaid  on  each  side 
Bow'd  toward  her,  combing  out  her  long  black  hair 
Damp  from  the  river ;  and  close  behind  her  stood 
Eight  daughters  of  the  plough,  stronger  than  men, 
Huge  women  blowzed  with '  health,  and  wind,  and 

rain, 

And  labor.    Each  was  like  a  Druid  rock; 
Or  like  a  spire  of  land  that  stands  apart 
Cleft  from  the  main,  and  wail'd  about  with  mews. . 

Then,  as  we  came,  the  crowd  dividing  clove 
An  advent  to  the  throne ;  and  there-beside, 
Half-naked,  as  if  caught  at  once  from  bed 
And  tumbled  on  the  purple  footcloth,  lay 
The  lily-shining  child ;  and  on  the  left, 
Bow'd  on  her  palms  and  folded  up  from  wrong, 
Her  round  white  shoulder  shaken  with  her  sobs, 
Melissa  knelt ;  but  Lady  Blanche  erect 
Stood  up  and  spake,  an  affluent  orator. 

"  It  was  not  thus,  O  Princess,  in  old  days : 
You  prized  my  counsel,  lived  upon  my  lips : 
I  led  you  then  to  all  the  Castalies; 
I  fed  you  with  the  milk  of  every  Muse ; 
I  loved  you  like  this  kneeler,  and  you  me 
Your  second  mother:  those  were  gracious  times. 
Then  came  your  new  friend :  you  began  to  change— 
I  saw  it  and  grieved — to  slacken  and  to  cool ; 
Till  taken  with  her  seeming  openness 
You  turned  your  warmer  currents  all  to  her, 
To  me  you  froze:  this  was  my  meed  for  all. 
Yet  I  bore  up  in  part  from  ancient  love, 
And  partly  that  I  hoped,  to  win  you  back, 
And  partly  conscious  of  my  own  deserts, 
And  partly  that  you  were  my  civil  head, 
And  chiefly  you  were  born  for  something  great, 
In  which  I  might  your  fellow-worker  be, 
When  time  should  serve ;  and  thus  a  noble  scheme 
Grew  up  from  seed  we  two  long  since  had  sown ; 
In  us  true  growth,  in  her  a  Jonah's  gourd, 
Up  in  one  night  and  due  to  sudden  sun: 
We  took  this  palace ;  but  even  from  the  first 


You  stood  in  your  own  light  and  darken'd  mine. 

What  student  came  but  that  you  planed  her  path 

To  Lady  Psyche,  younger,  not  so  wise, 

A  foreigner,  and  I  your  countrywoman, 

I  your  old  friend  and  tried,  she  new  in  all  ? 

But  still  her  lists  .were  swell'd  and  mine  were  leau ; 

Yet  I  bore  up  in  hope  she  would  be  known : 

Then  came  these  wolves:  they  knew  her:  they  en- 

dured, 

Long-closeted  with  her  the  yester-morn, 
To  tell  her  what  they' were,  and  she  to  hear: 
And  me  none  told :  not  less  to  an  eye  like  mine, 
A  lidless  watcher  of  the  public  weal, 
Last  night,  their  mask  was  patent,  and  my  foot 
Was  to  you :  but  I  thought  again :  I  fear'd 
To  meet  a  cold  '  We  thank  you,  we  shall  hear  of  it 
From  Lady  Psyche:'  you  had  gone  to  her, 
She  told,  perforce ;  and  winning  easy  grace, 
No  doubt,  for  slight  delay,  remaiu'd  among  us 
In  our  young  nursery  still  unknown,  the  stem 
Less  grain  than  touchwood,  while  my  honest  heat 
Were  all  miscounted  as  malignant  haste 
To  push  my  rival  out  of  place  and  power. 
But  public  use  required  she  should  be  known  ; 
And  since  my  oath  was  ta'en  for  public  use, 
I  broke  the  letter  of  it  to  keep  the  sense. 
I  spoke  not  then  at  first,  but  watch'd  them  well, 
Saw  that  they  kept  apart,  no  mischief  done ; 
And  yet  this  day  (tho1  you  should  hate  me  for  it) 
I  came  to  tell  you:  found  that  you  had  gone, 
Ridd'n  to  the  hills,  she  likewise:  now,  I  thought, 
That  surely  she  will  speak ;  if  not,  then  I : 
Did  she?    These  monsters  blazon 'd  what  they  were, 
According  to  the  coarseness  of  their  kind, 
For  thus  I  hear ;  and  known  at  last  (my  work) 
And  full  of  cowardice  and  guilty  shame, 
I  grant  in  her  some  sense  of  shame,  she  flies ; 
And  I  remain  on  whom  to  wreak  your  rage, 
I,  that  have  lent  my  life  to  build  up  yours, 
I  that  have  wasted  here  health,  wealth,  and  time. 
And  talents,  I— you  know  it — I  will  not  boast- 
Dismiss  me,  and  I  prophesy  your  plan, 
Divorced  from  my  experience,  will  be  chaff 
For  every  gust  of  chance,  and  men  will  say 
We  did  not  know  the  real  light,  but  chased 
The  wisp  that  flickers  where  no  foot  can  tread." 

She  ceased :  the  Princess  answer'd  coldly  "  Good : 
Yonr  oath  is  broken :  we  dismiss  you :  go. 
For  this  lost  lamb  (she  pointed  to  the  child) 
Our  mind  is  changed :  we  take  it  to  ourself." 

Thereat  the  Lady  stretch'd  a  vulture  throat, 
And  shot  from  crooked  lips  a  haggard  smile. 
"  The  plan  was  mine.    I  built  the  nest,"  she  said, 
"  To  hatch  the  cuckoo.   Rise !"  and  stoop'd  to  updrag 
Melissa:  she,  half  on  her  mother  propt, 
Half-drooping  from  her,  turn'd  her  face,  and  cast 
A  liquid  look  on  Ida,  full  of  prayer, 
Which  melted  Florian's  fancy  as  she  hung, 
A  Niobean  daughter,  one  arm  out, 
Appealing  to  the  bolts  of  Heaven ;  and  while 
We  gazed  upon  her  came  a  little  stir 
About  the  doors,  and  on  a  sudden  rush'd 
Among  us,  out  of  breath,  as  one  pursued, 
A  woman-post  in  flying  raiment.    Fear 
Stared  in  her  eyes,  and  chalk'd  her  face,  and  wing'd 
Her  transit  to  the  throne,  whereby  she  fell 
Delivering  seal'd  despatches  which  the  Head 
Took  half-amazed,  and  in  her  lion's  mood 
Tore  open,  silent  we  with  blind  surmise 
Regarding,  while  she  read,  till  over  brow 
And  cheek  and  bosom  brake  the  wrathful  bloom 
As  of  some  fire  against  a  stormy  cloud, 
When  the  wild  peasant  rights  himself,  the  rick 
Flames,  and  his  anger  reddens  in  the  heavens ; 
For  anger  most  it  seem'd,  while  now  her  breast, 
Beaten  with  some  great  passion  at  her  hsart, 


THE  PRINCESS:  A  MEDLEY. 


Palpitated,  her  hand  shook,  and  we  heard 
In  the  dead  hush  the  papers  that  she  held 
Rustle:  at  once  the  lost  lamb  at  her  feet 
Sent  out  a  bitter  bleating  for  its  dam ; 
The  plaintive  cry  jarr'd  on  her  ire ;  she  crush'd 
The  scrolls  together,  made  a  sudden  turn 
As  if  to  speak,  but,  utterance  failing  her, 
She  whirl'd  them  on  to  me,  as  who  should  say 
"Read,"  and  I  read— two  letters — one  her  sire's. 

"  Fair  daughter,  when  we  sent  the  Prince  your  way 
We  knew  not  your  ungracious  laws,  which  learnt, 
We,  conscious  of  what  temper  you  are  built, 
Came  all  in  haste  to  hinder  wrong,  but  fell 
Into  his  father's  hands,  who  has  this  night, 
You  lying  close  upon  his  territory, 
Slipt  round  and  in  the  dark  invested  you, 
And  here  he  keeps  me  hostage  for  his  son." 

The  second  was  my  father's,  running  thus: 
"You  have  our  son:  touch  not  a  hair  of  his  head: 
Render  him  up  unscathed:  give  him  your  hand: 
Cleave  to  your  contract:  th.o'  indeed  we  hear 
You  hold  the  woman  is  the  better  man; 
A  rampant  heresy,  such  as  if  it  spread 
Would  make  all  women  kick  against  their  lords 
Thro'  all  the  world,  and  which  might  well  deserve 
That  we  this  night  should  pluck  your  palace  down ; 
And  we  will  do  it,  unless  you  send  us  back 
Our  son,  on  the  instant,  whole." 

So  far  I  read ; 
And  then  stood  up  and  spoke  impetuously. 

"O  not  to  pry  and  peer  on  your  reserve, 
But  led  by  golden  wishes,  and  a  hope 
The  child  of  regal  compact,  did  I  break 
Your  precinct ;  not  a  scorner  of  your  sex 
But  venerator,  zealous  it  should  be 
All  that  it  might  be;  hear  me,  for  I  bear, 
Tho'  man,  yet  human,  whatsoe'er  your  wrongs, 
From  the  flaxen  curl  to  the  gray  lock  a  life 
Less  mine  than  yours:   my  nurse  would  tell  me  of 

you; 

I  babbled  for  you,  as  babies  for  the  moon, 
Vague  brightness ;  when  a  boy,  you  stoop'd  to  me 
From  all  high  places,  lived  in  all  fair  lights, 
Came  in  long  breezes  rapt  from  inmost  south 
And  blown  to  inmost  north ;  at  eve  and  dawn 
With  Ida,  Ida,  Ida,  rang  the  woods ; 
The  leader  wildswan  in  among  the  stars 
Would  clang  it,  and  lapt  in  wreaths  of  glow-worm 

light 

The  mellow  breaker  murmnr'd  Ida.    Now, 
Because  I  wquld  have  reach'd  you,  had  you  been 
Sphered  up  with  Cassiopeia,  or  the  enthroned 
Persephone  in  Hades,  now  at  length, 
Those  winters  of  abeyance  all  worn  out, 
A  man  I  came  to  see  yon :  but,  indeed, 
Not  in  this  frequence  can  I  lend  full  tongua, 

0  noble  Ida,  to  those  thoughts  that  wait 
On  you,  their  centre :  let  me  say  but  this, 
That  many  a  famous  man  and  woman,  town 
And  landskip,  have  I  heard  of,  after  seen 

The  dwarfs  of  prestige ;  tho'  when  known,  there  grew 
Another  kind  of  beauty  in  detail 
Made  them  worth  knowing;  but  in  yon  I  found 
My  boyish  dream  involved  and  dazzled  down 
And  master'd,  while  that  after-beauty  makes 
Such  head  from  act  to  act,  from  hour  to  hour, 
Within  me,  that  except  yon  slay  me  here, 
According  to  your  bitter  statute-book,. 

1  can  not  cease  to  follow  yon,  as  they  say 
The  seal  does  music ;  who  desire  you  more 
Than  growing  boys  their  manhood ;  dying  lips, 
With  many  thousand  matters  left  to  do, 

The  breath  of  life ;  O  more  than  poor  men  wealth, 
Than  sick  men  health— yours,  yours,  not  mine— but 
half 


Without  you,  with  you,  whole ;  and  of  those  halves 
You  worthiest ;  and  howe'er  you  block  and  bar 
Your  heart  with  system  out  from  mine,  I  hold 
That  it  becomes  no  man  to  nurse  despair, 
But  in  the  teeth  of  cleuch'd  antagonisms 
To  follow  up  the  worthiest  till  he  die  : 
Yet  that  I  came  not  all  unauthorized 
Behold  your  father's  letter." 

On  one  knee 

Kneeling,  I  gave  it,  which  she  caught,  and  dash'd 
Unopen'd  at  her  feet:  a  tide  of  fierce 
Invective  seem'd  to  wait  behind  her  lips, 
As  waits  a  river  level  with  the  dam 
Ready  to  burst  and  flood  the  world  with  foam; 
And  so  she  would  have  spoken,  but  there  rose 
A  hubbub  in  the  court  of  half  the  maids 
Gather'd  together :  from  the  illumined  hall 
Long  lanes  of  splendor  slanted  o'er  a  press 
Of  snowy  shoulders,  thick  as  herded  ewes, 
And  rainbow  robes,  and  gems  and  gem-like  eyes, 
And  gold  and  golden  heads ;  they  to  and  fro 
Fluctuated,  as  flowers  In  storm,  some  red,  some  pale, 
All  opeu-mouth'd,  all  gazing  to  the  light, 
Some  crying  there  was  an  army  in  the  land, 
And  some  that  men  were  in  the  very  walls, 
And  some  they  cared  not;  till  a  clamor  grew 
As  of  a  new-world  Babel,  woman-built, 
And  worse  confounded:  high  above  them  stood 
The  placid  marble  Muses,  looking  peace. 

Not  peace  she  look'd,  the  Head :  but  rising  up 
Robed  in  the  long  night  of  her  deep  hair,  so 
To  the  open  window  moved,  remaining  there 
Fixt  like  a  beacon-tower  above  the  waves 
Of  tempest,  when  the  «rimson-rolling  eye 
Glares  ruin,  and  the  wild  birds  on  the  light 
Dash  themselves  dead.    She  stretch'd  her  arms  and 

call'd 
Across  the  tumult  and  the  tumult  fell. 

"What  fear  ye  brawlers?  am  not  I  your  Head? 
On  me,  me,  me,  the  storm  first  breaks :  /  dare 
All  these  male  thunderbolts:  what  is  it  ye  fear? 
Peace  !  there  are  those  to  avenge  us  and  they  come: 
If  not, — myself  were  like  enough,  O  girls, 
To  unfurl  the  maiden  banner  of  our  rights, 
And  clad  in  iron  burst  the  ranks  of  war, 
Or,  falling,  protomartyr  of  our  cause, 
Die:  yet  I  blame  ye  not  so  much  for  fear; 
Six  thousand  years  of  fear  have  made  ye  that 
From  which  I  would  redeem  ye  :  but  for  those 
That  stir  this  hubbub— you  and  you — I  know 
Your  faces  there  in  the  crowd— to-morrow  morn 
We  hold  a  great  convention :  then  shall  they 
That  love  their  voices  more  than  duty,  learn 
With  whom  they  deal,  dismiss'd  in  shame  to  live 
No  wiser  than  their  mothers,  household  stuff, 
Live  chattels,  mincers  of  each  other's  fame, 
Full  of  weak  poison,  turnspits  for  the  clown, 
The  drunkard's  football,  laughing-stocks  of  Time, 
Whose  brains  are  in  their  hands  and  in  their  heels, 
But  fit  to  flaunt,  to  dress,  to  dance,  to  thrum, 
To  tramp,  to  scream,  to  burnish,  and  to  scour, 
Forever  slaves  at  nome  and  fools  abroad." 

She,  ending,  waved  her  hands :  thereat  the  crowd 
Muttering  dissolved :  then  with  a  smile,  that  look'd 
A  stroke  of  cruel  sunshine  on  the  cliff, 
When  all  the  glens  are  drown'd  in  azure  gloom 
Of  thunder-shower,  she  floated  to  us  and  said : 

"You  have  done  well  and  like  a  gentleman, 
And  like  a  prince:  you  have  our  thanks  for  all: 
And  you  look  well  too  in  your  woman's  dress: 
Well  have  you  done  and  like  a  gentleman. 
You  saved  our  life:  we  owe  you  bitter  thanks: 
Better  have  died  and  spilt  our  bones  in  the  flood- 
Then  men  had  said— but  now— What  hinders  me 


THE  PRINCESS:  A  MEDLEY. 


95 


To  take  such  bloody  vengeance  on  you  both  ? — 
Yet  since  our  father — Wasps  in  our  good  hive, 
You  would-be  quenchers  of  the  light  to  be, 
Barbarians,  grosser  than  your  native  bears — 

0  would  I  had  his  sceptre  for  one  hour  I 

You  that  have  dared  to  break  our  bound,  and  gull'd 
Our  servants,  wrong'd  and  lied  and  thwarted  us — 
/  wed  with  thee !  /  bound  by  precontract 
Your  bride,  your  bondslave !  not  tho'  all  the  gold 
That  veins   the  world  were  pack'd   to  make  your 

crown, 

And  every  spoken  tongue  should  lord  you.     Sir, 
Your  falsehood  and  yourself  are  hateful  to  us: 

1  trample  on  your  offers  and  on  you: 
Begone :  we  will  not  look  upon  you  more. 
Here,  push  them  out  at  gates." 

In  wrath  she  spake. 

Then  those  eight  mighty  daughters  of  the  plough 
Bent  their  broad  faces  toward  us  and  address'd 
Their  motion :  twice  I  sought  to  plead  my  cause, 
But  on  my  shoulder  hung  their  heavy  bauds, 
The  weight  of  destiny :  so  from  her  face 
They  push'd  us,  down  the  steps,  and  thro'  the  court, 
And  with  grim  laughter  thrust  us  out  at  gates. 

We  cross'd  the  street  and  gain'd  a  petty  mound 
Beyond  it,  whence  we  saw  the  lights  and  heard 
The  voices  murmuring.    While  I  listen'd,  came 
On  a  sudden  the  weird  seizure  and  the  doubt: 
I  seem'd  to  move  among  a  world  of  ghosts ; 
The  Princess  with  her  monstrous  woman-guard, 
The  jest  and  earnest  working  side  by  side, 
The  cataract  and  the  tumult  and  the  kings 
Were  shadows;  and  the  long  fantastic  night 
With  all  its  doings  had  and  had  not  been, 
And  all  things  were  and  were  not. 

This  went  by 

As  strangely  as  it  came,  and  on  my  spirits 
Settled  a  gentle  cloud  of  melancholy ; 
Not  long;  I  shook  it  off;  for  spite  of  doubts 
And  sudden  ghostly  shadowings  I  was  one 
To  whom  the  touch  of  all  mischance  but  came 
As  night  to  him  that  sitting  on  a  hill 
Sees  the  midsummer,  midnight,  Norway  sun 
Set  into  sunrise :  then  we  moved  away. 


Thy  voice  is  heard  thro'  rolling  drums, 

That  beat  to  battle  where  he  stands; 
Thy  face  across  his  fancy  comes, 

And  gives  the  battle  to  his  hands  : 
A  moment,  while  the  trumpets  blow, 

He  sees  his  brood  about  thy  knee  ; 
The  next,  like  fire  he  meets  the  foe, 

And  strikes  him  dead  for  thine  and  thee. 

So  Lilia  sang :  we  thought  her  half-possess'd, 
She  struck  such  warbling  fury  thro1  the  words ; 
And,  after,  feigning  pique  at  what  she  call'd 
The  raillery,  or  grotesque,  or  false  sublime — 
Like  one  that  wishes  at  a  dance  to  change 
The  music — clapt  her  hands  and  cried  for  war, 
Or  some  grand  fight  to  kill  and  make  an  end: 
And  he  that  next  inherited  the  tale 
Half  turning  to  the  broken  statue  said, 
"  Sir  Ralph  has  got  your  colors :  if  I  prove 
Your  knight,  and  fight  your  battle,  what  for  me?" 
It  chanced,  her  empty  glove  upon  the  tomb 
Lay  by  her  like  a  model  of  her  hand. 
She  took  it  and  she  flung  it.    "  Fight,"  she  said, 
"  And  make  us  all  we  would  be,  great  and  good.' 
He  knightlike  in  his  cap  instead  of  casque, 
A  cap  of  Tyrol  b'orrow'd  from  the  hall, 
Arranged  the  favor,  and  assumed  the  Prince. 

V. 

Now,  scarce  three  paces  measured  from  the  mound, 

We  stumbled  on  a  stationary  voice, 

And  "  Stand,  who  goes  ?"  "Two  fronj  the  palace," L 


"The  second  two:    they  wait,"  he  said,  "pass  on; 
His  Highness  wakes :"  and  one,  that  clash'd  in  arms, 
By  glimmering  lanes  and  walls  of  canvas,  led 
Threading  the  soldier-city,  till  we  heard 
The  drowsy  folds  of  our  great  ensign  shake 
From  blazon'd  lions  o'er  the  imperial  tent 
Whispers  of  war. 

Entering,  the  sudden  light 

Dazed  me  half-blind :  I  stood  and  seem'd  to  hear, 
As  in  a  poplar  grove  when  a  light  wind  wakes 
A  lisping  of  the  inmtmerous  leaf  and  dies, 
Each  hissing  in  his  neighbor's  ear;  and  then 
A  strangled  titter,  out  of  which  there  brake 
On  all  sides,  clamoring  etiquette  to  death, 
Unmeasured  mirth;  while  now  the  two  old  kings 
Began  to  wag  their  baldness  up  and  down, 
The  fresh  young  captains  flash'd  their  glittering  teeth, 
The  huge  bush-bearded  Barons  heaved  and  blew, 
And  slain  with  laughter  roll'd  the  gilded  Squire. 

At  length  my  Sire,  his  rough  cheek  wet  with  tears, 
Panted  from  weary  sides,  "King,  you  are  free! 
We  did  but  keep  you  surety  for  our  sou, 
If  this  be  he, — or  a  draggled  mawkin,  thou, 
That  tends  her  bristled  grunters  in  the  sludge :" 
For  I  was  drench'd  with  ooze,  and  torn  with  briers, 
More  crumpled  than  a  poppy  from  the  sheath, 
And  all  one  rag,  dispriuced  from  head  to  heel. 
Then  some  one  sent  beneath  his  vaulted  palm 
A  whisper'd  jest  to  some  one  near  him  "  Look, 
He  has  been  among  his  shadows."    "Satan  take 
The  old  women  and  their  shadows !  (thus  the  King 
Roar'd)  make  yourself  a  man  to  fight  with  men. 
Go :  Cyril  told  us  all." 

As  boys  that  slink 

From  ferule  and  the  trespass-chiding  eye, 
Away  we  stole,  and  transient  in  a  trice 
From  what  was  left  of  faded  woman-slough 
To  sheathing  splendors  and  the  golden  scale 
Of  harness,  issued  in  the  sun,  that  now 
Leapt  from  the  dewy  shoulders  of  the  Earth, 
And  hit  the  northern  hills.    Here  Cyril  met  ns, 
A  little  shy  at  first,  but  by  and  by 
We  twain,  with  mutual  pardon  ask'd  and  given 
For  stroke  and  song,  resolder'd  peace,  whereou 
Follow'd  his  tale.    Amazed  he  fled  away 
Thro'  the  dark  laud,  and  later  in  the  night 
Had  come  on  Psyche  weeping :  "  then  we  fell 
Into  your  father's  hand,  and  there  she  lies, 
But  will  not  speak,  nor  stir." 

He  show'd  a  tent 

A  stone-shot  off:  we  enter'd  in,  aud  there 
Among  piled  arms  and  rough  accoutrements, 
Pitiful  sight,  wrapt  in  a  soldier's  cloak, 
Like  some  sweet  sculpture  draped  from  head  to  foot, 
And  push'd  -by  rude  hands  from  its  pedestal, 
All  her  fair  length  upon  the  ground  she  lay: 
And  at  her  head  a  follower  of  the  camp, 
A  charr'd  and  wrinkled  piece  of  womanhood, 
Sat  watching  like  a  watcher  by  the  dead. 

Then  Florian  knelt,  and  "Come,"  he  whisper'd  to 

her, 

"  Lift  up  your  head,  sweet  sister  :  lie  not  thus. 
What  have  yon  done,  but  right  ?  yon  could  not  slay 
Me,  nor  your  prince  :  look  up  :  be  comforted  : 
Sweet  is  it  to  have  done  the  thing  one  ought, 
When  fall'n  in  darker  ways."    And  likewise  I : 
"  Be  comforted :  have  I  not  lost  her  too, 
In  whose  least  act  abides  the  nameless  charm 
That  none  has  else  for  me  ?"    She  heard,  she  moved, 
She  moan'd,  a  folded  voice;  and  up  she  sat, 
And  raised  the  cloak  from  brows  as  pale  and  smooth 
As  those  that  mourn  half-shrouded  over  death 
In  deathless  marble.    "  Her,"  she  said,  "my  friend — 
Parted  from  her — betray'd  her  cause  and  mine — 
Where  shall  I  breathe?  why  kept  ye  not  your  faith? 
O  base  and  bad  !  what  comfort  ?  none  for  me  1" 
To  whom  remorseful  Cyril,  "Yet  I  pray 


96 


THE  PRINCESS :  A  MEDLEY. 


Take  comfort :  live,  dear  lady,  for  your  child !" 
At  which  she  lifted  up  her  voice  and  cried. 

"Ah  me,  my  babe,  my  blossom,  ah  my  child, 
My  one  sweet  child,  whom  I  shall  see  no  more ! 
For  now  will  cruel  Ida  keep  her  back ; 
And  either  she  will  die  for  want  of  care, 
Or  sicken  with  ill  usage,  when  they  say 
The  child  is  hers— for  every  little  fault, 
The  child  is  hers ;  and  they  will  beat  my  girl 
Remembering  her  mother:  O  my  flower! 
Or  they  will  take  her,  they  will  make  her  hard, 
And  she  will  pass  me  by  in  after-life 
With  some  cqld  reverence  worse  than  were  she  dead. 
Ill  mother  that  I  was  to  leave  her  there, 
To  lag  behind,  scared  by  the  cry  they  made, 
The  horror  of  the  shame  among  them  all : 
Bub  I  will  go  and  sit  beside  the  doors, 
And  make  a  wild  petition  night  and  day, 
Until  they  hate  to  hear  me  like  a  wind 
Wailing  forever,  till  they  open  to  me, 
And  lay  my  little  blossom  at  my  feet, 
My  babe,  my  sweet  Aglaia,  ijy  one  child : 
And  I  will  take  her  up  and  go  my  way, 
And  satisfy  my  soul  with  kissing  her : 
Ah !  what  might  that  man  not  deserve  of  me, 
Who  gave  me  back  my  child?"    "Be  comforted," 
Said  Cyril,  "you  shall  have  it,"  but  again 
She  veil'd  her  "brows,  and  prone  she  sank,  and  so 
Like  tender  things  that  being  caught  feign  death, 
Spoke  not,  nor  stirr'd. 

By  this  a  murmur  ran 

Thro'  all  the  camp  and  inward  raced  the  scouts 
With  rumor  of  Prince  Arac  hard  at  hand. 
We  left  her  by  the  woman,  and  without 
Found  the  gray  kings  at  parle:  and  "Look  you," 

cried 

My  father,  "  that  our  compact  be  fulflll'd 
You  have  spoilt  this  child;  she  laughs  at  you  and 

man : 

She  wrongs  herself,  her  sex,  and  me,  and  him : 
But  red-fac-ed  war  has  rods  of  steel  and  fire ; 
She  yields,  or  war." 

Then  Gama  tnrn'd  to  me: 
"We  fear,  indeed,  you  spent  a  stormy  time 
With  our  strange  girl:  and  yet  they  say  that  still 
You  love  her.    Give  us,  then,  your  mind  at  large : 
How  say  you,  war  or  not?" 

"  Not  war,  if  possible, 

0  king,"  I  said,  "lest  from  the  abuse  of  war, 
The  desecrated  shrine,  the  trampled  year, 

The  smouldering  homestead,  and  the  household  flower 
Torn  from  the  lintel — all  the  common  wrong — 
A  smoke  go  up  thro'  which  I  loom  to  her 
Three  times  a  monster:  now  she  lightens  scorn 
At  him  that  mars  her  plan,  but  then  would  hate 
(And  every  voice  she  talk'd  with  ratify  it, 
And  every  face  she  look'd  on  justify  it) 
The  general  foe.    More  soluble  is  this  knot, 
By  gentleness  than  war.    I  want  her  love. 
What  were  I  nigher  this  altho'  we  dash'd 
Your  cities  into  shards  with  catapults, 
She  would  not  love ; — or  brought  her  ch,ain'd,  a  slave, 
The  lifting  of  whose  eyelash  is  my  lord, 
Not  ever  would  she  love ;  but  brooding  turn 
The  book  of  scorn  till  all  my  little  chance 
Were  caught  within,  the  record  of  her  wrongs, 
And  crush'd  to  death :  and  rather,  Sire,  than  this 

1  would  the  old  god  of  war  himself  were  dead, 
Forgotten,  rusting  on  his  iron  hills, 

Rotting  on  some -wild  shore  with  ribs  of  wreck, 
Or  like  an  old-world  mammoth  bulk'd  in  ice, 
Not  to  be  molten  out." 

And  roughly  spake 

My  father,  "  Tut,  you  know  them  not,  the  girls. 
Boy,  when  I  hear  you  prate  I  almost  think 
That  idiot  legend  credible    Look  you,  Sir ! 
Man  is  the  hunter ;  woman  is  his  game : 


The  sleek  and  shining  creatures  of  the  chase, 
We  hunt  them  for  the  beauty  of  their  skins; 
They  love  us  for  it,  and  we  ride  them  down. 
Wheedling  and  siding  with  them  !    Out !  for  shame  ! 
Boy,  there's  no  rose  that's  half  so  dear  to  them 
As  he  that  does  the  thing  they  dare  not  do, 
Breathing  and  sounding  beauteous  battle,  comes 
With  the  air  of  the  trumpet  round  him,  and  leaps  in 
Among  the  women,  snares  them  by  the  score 
Flatter'd  and  fluster'd,  wins,  though  dash'd  with  death 
He  reddens  what  he  kisses:  thus  I  won 
Your  mother,  a  good  mother,  a  good  wife, 
Worth  winning;  but  this  firebrand— gentleness 
To  such  as  her '.  if  Cyril  spake  her  true, 
To  catch  a  dragon  in  a  cherry  net, 
To  trip  a  tigress  with  a  gossamer, 
Were  wisdom  to  it." 

"  Yea,  but  Sire,"  I  cried, 

"Wild  natures  need  wise  curbs.    The  soldier?  No: 
What  dares  not  Ida  do  that  she  should  prize 
The  soldier?    I  beheld  her,  when  she  rose 
The  yester-night,  and  storming  in  extremes 
Stood  for  her  cause,  and  flung  defiance  down 
Gagelike  to  man,  and  had  not  shunn'd  the  death, 
No,  not  the  soldier's :  yet  I  hold  her,  king, 
True  woman:  but  you  clash  them  all  in  one, 
That  have  as  many  differences  as  we. 
The  violet  varies  from  the  lily  as  far 
As  oak  from  elm:  one  loves  the  soldier,  one 
The  silken  priest  of  peace,  one  this,  one  that, 
And  some  unworthily;  their  sinless  faith, 
A  maiden  moon  that  sparkles  on  a  sty, 
Glorifying  clown  and  satyr;  whence  they  need 
More  breadth  of  culture:  is  not  Ida  right? 
They  worth  it  ?  truer  to  the  law  within  ? 
Severer  in  the  logic  of  a  life  ? 
Twice  as  magnetic  to  sweet  influences 
Of  earth  and  heaven  ?  and  she  of  whom  you  speak, 
My  mother,  looks  as  whole  as  some  serene 
Creation  minted  in  the  golden  moods 
Of  sovereign  artists ;  not  a  thought,  a  touch, 
But  pure  as  lines  of  green  that  streak  the  white 
Of  the  first  snowdrop's  inner  leaves ;  I  say, 
Not  like  the  piebald  miscellany,  man, 
Bursts  of  great  heart  and  slips  in  sensual  mire, 
But  whole  and  one:  and  take  them  all-in-all, 
Were  we  ourselves  but  half  as  good,  as  kind, 
As  truthful,  much  that  Ida  claims  as  right 
Had  ne'er  been  mooted,  but  as  frankly  theirs 
As  dues  of  Nature.    To  our  point:  not  war: 
Least  I  lose  all." 

"Nay,  nay,  you  spake  but  sense," 
Said  Gama.    "We  remember  love  ourselves 
In  our  sweet  youth ;  we  did  not  rate  him  then 
This  red-hot  iron  to  be  shaped  with  blows. 
You  talk  almost  like  Ida:  she  can  talk ; 
And  there  is  something  in  it  as  you  say: 
But  you  talk  kindlier:  we  esteem  you  for  it- 
He  seems  a  gracious  and  a  gallant  Prince, 
I  would  he  had  our  daughter:  for  the  re^t, 
Our  own  detention,  why  the  causes  weigh'd, 
Fatherly  fears — yon  used  us  courteously — 
W3  would  do  mu"h  to  grrtify  you'-  Prince  — 
We  pardon  it ;  and  for  your  ingress  here 
Upon  the  skirt  and  fringe  of  our  fair  land, 
You  did  but  come  as  goblins  in  the  night, 
Nor  in  the  furrow  broke  the  ploughman's  head, 
Nor  burnt  the  grange,  nor  buss'd  the  milkingmaid, 
Nor  robb'd  the  farmer  of  his  bowl  of  cream : 
But  let  your  Prince  (our  royal  word  upon  it, 
He  comes  back  safe)  ride  with  us  to  our  lines, 
And  speak  with  Arac:  Arac's  word  is  thrice 
As  ours  with  Ida :  something  may  be  done— 
I  know  not  what — and  ours  shall  see  us  friends. 
You,  likewise,  our  late  guests,  if  so  you  will, 
Follow  us :  who  knows  ?  we  four  may  build  some 

plan 
Foursquare  to  opposition." 


THE  PRINCESS  :   A  MEDLEY. 


Here  be  reach'd 

White  hands  of  farewell  to  my  sire,  who  growl'd 
An  answer  which,  half-muffled  in  his  beard, 
Let  so  much  out  as  gave  us  leave  to  go. 

Then  rode  we  with  the  old  king  across  the  lawns 
Beneath  huge  trees,  a  thousand  rings  of  Spring 
In  every  bole,  a  song  on  every  spray 
Of  birds  that  piped  their  Valentines,  and  woke 
Desire  in  me  to  infuse  my  tale  of  love 
In  the  old  king's  ears,  who  promised  help,  and  oozed 
All  o'er  with  houey'd  answer  as  we  rode; 
And  blossom-fragrant  slipt  the  heavy  dews 
Gather'd  by  night  and  peace,  with  each  light  air 
On  owr  mail'd  heads :  but  other  thoughts  than  Peace 
Burnt  in  us.  when  we  saw  the  embattled  squares, 
And  squadrons  of  the  Prince,  trampling  the  flowers 
With  clamor:  for  among  them  rose  a  cry 
As  if  to  greet  the  king :  they  made  a  halt ; 
The  horses  yell'd;  they  clash'd  their  arms  ;  the  drum 
Beat ;  merrily-blowing  shrill'd  the  martial  fife ; 
And  in  the  blast  and  bray  of  the  long  horn 
And  serpent-throated  bugle,  undulated 
The  banner:  anon  to  meet  us  lightly  pranced 
Three  captains  out ;  nor  ever  had  I  seen 
Such  thews  of  men :  the  midmost  and  the  highest 
Was  Arac:  all  about  his  motion  clung 
The  shadow  of  his  sister,  as  the  beam 
Of  the  East,  that  play'd  upon  them,  made  them  glance 
Like  those  three  stars  of  the  airy  Giant^B  zone, 
That  glitter  burnish'd  by  the  frosty  dark ; 
And  as  the  fiery  Sirius  alters  hue, 
And  bickers  into  red  and  emerald,  shone 
Their  morions,  wash'd  with  morning,  as  they  came. 

And  I  that  prated  peace,  when  first  I  heard 
War-music,  felt  the  blind  wildbeast  of  force, 
Whose  home  is  in  the  sinews  of  a  man, 
Btir  in  me  as  to  strike :  then  took  the  king 
His  three  broad  sons ;  with  now  a  wandering  hand 
And  now  a  pointed  finger,  told  them  all: 
A  common  light  of  smiles  at  our  disguise 
Broke  from  their  lips,  and,  ere  the  windy  jest 
Had  labor'd  down  within  his  ample  lungs, 
The  genial  giant,  Arac,  roll'd  himself 
Thrice  iu  the  saddle,  then  burst  out  in  words. 

"  Our  land  invaded,  'sdeath !  and  he  himself 
Your  captive,  yet  my  father  wills  not  war: 
And,  'sdeath !  myself,  what  care  I,  war  or  no? 
But  then  this  question  of  your  troth  remains: 
And  there  's  a  downright  honest  meaning  in  her; 
She  flies  too  high,  she  flies  too  high  !  and  yet 
She  ask'd  but  space  and  fairplay  for  her  scheme: 
She  prest  and  prest  it  on  me— I  myself, 
What  know  I  of  these  things  ?  but,  life  and  soul ! 
I  thought  her  half-right  talking  of  her  wrongs: 
I  say  she  flies  too  high,  'sdeath  !  what  of  that  ?      • 
I  take  her  for  the  flower  of  womankind, 
And  so  I  often  told  her,  right  or  wrong, 
And,  Prince,  she  can  be  sweet  to  those  she  loves, 
And,  right  or  wrong,  I  care  not:  this  is  all, 
I  stand  upon  her  side :  she  made  me  swear  it — 
'Sdeath,— and  with  solemn  rites  by  candlelight — 
Swear  by  St.  something — I  forget  her  name — 
Her  that  talk'd  down  the  fifty  wisest  men: 
She  was  a  princess  too;  and  so  I  swore. 
Come,  this  is  all;  she  will  not:  waive  your  claim, 
If  not,  the  foughten  field,  what  else,  at  once 
Decides  it,  'sdeath !  against  my  father's  will." 

I  lagg'd  in  answer  loath  to  render  up 
My  precontract,  and  loath  by  brainless  war 
To  cleave  the  rift  of  difference  deeper  yet; 
Till  one  of  those  two  brothers,  half  aside 
And  fingering  at  the  hair  about  his  lip, 
To  prick  us  on  to  combat  "  Like  to  like ! 
The  woman's  garment  hid  the  woman's  heart." 
7 


A  taunt  that  clench'd  his  purpose  like  a  blow ! 
For  fiery-short  was  Cyril's  counter-scoff, 
And  sharp  I  answer'd,  touch'd  upon  the  point 
Where  idle  boys  are  cowards  to  their  shame, 
"  Decide  it  here:  why  not?  we  are  three  to  three." 

Then  spake  the  third,  "But  three  to  three?   no 

more? 

No  more,  and  in  our  noble  sister's  cause? 
More,  more,  for  honor :  every  captain  waits 
Hungry  for  honor,  angry  for  his  king. 
More,  more,  some  fifty  on  a  side,  that  each 
May  breathe  himself,  and  quick  !  by  overthrow 
Of  these  or  those,  the  question  settled  die." 

"Yea,"  answer'd  I,  "for  this  wild  wreath  of  air, 
This  flake  of  rainbow  flying  on  the  highest 
Foam  of  men's  deeds — this  honor,  if  ye  wilL 
It  needs  must  be  for  honor  if  at  all : 
Since,  what  decision  ?  if  we  fail,  we  fail, 
And  if  we  win,  we  fail :  she  would  not  keep 
Her  compact."    '"Sdeath !  but  we  will  send  to  her," 
Said  Arac,  "worthy  reasons  why  she  should 
Bide  by  this  issue:  let  our  missive  thro', 
And  you  shall  have  her  answer  by  the  word.' 

"Boys!"   shriek'd  the  old  king,  but  vainlier  than 

a  hen  i 

To  her  false  daughters  iu  the  pool ;  for  none 
Regarded;  neither  seem'd  there  more  to  say: 
Back  rode  we  to  my  father's  camp,  and  found 
He  thrice  had  scut  a  herald  to  the  gates, 
To  learn  if  Ida  yet  would  cede  our  claim, 
Or  by  denial  flush  her  babbling  wells 
With  her  own  people's  life:  three  times  he  went: 
The  first,  he  bjew  and  blew,  but  none  appear'd: 
He  batter'd  at  the  doors;  none  came:  the  next, 
An  awful  voice  within  had  warn'd  him  thence: 
The  third,  and  those  eight  daughters  of  the  plough 
Came  sallying  thro'  the  gates,  and  caught  his  hair, 
And  so  belabor'd  him  on  rib  and  cheek 
They  made  him  wild :  not  less  one  glance  he  caught 
Thro'  open  doors  of  Ida  station'd  there 
Unshaken,  clinging  to  her  purpose,  firm 
Tho'  compass'd  by  two  armies  and  the  noise 
Of  arms ;  and  standing  like  a  stately  Pine 
Set  in  a  cataract  on  an  island-crap, 
When  storm  is  on  the  heights,  and  right  and  left 
Suck'd  from  the  dark  heart  of  the  long  hills  roll 
The  torrents,  dash'd  to  the  vale:  and  yet  her  will 
Bred  will  in  me  to  overcome  it  or  fall. 

But  when  I  told  the  king  that  I  was  pledged 
To  fight  in  tourney  for  my  bride,  he  clash'd 
His  iron  palms  together  with  a  cry ; 
Himself  would  tilt  it  out  among  the  lads  : 
But  overborne  by  all  his  bearded  lords 
With  reasons  drawn  from  age  and  state,  perforce 
He  yielded,  wroth  and  red,  with  fierce  demur: 
And  many  a  bold  knight  started  up  in  heat, 
And  sware  to  combat  for  my  claim  till  death. 

All  on  this  eide  the  palace  ran  the  field 
Flat  to  the  garden  wall :  and  likewise  here, 
Above  the  garden's  glowing  blossom-belts, 
A  column'd  entry  shone  and  marble  stairs, 
And  great  bronze  valves,  emboss'd  with  Tomyris 
And  what  she  did  to  Cyrus  after  fight, 
But  now  fast  barr'd:  so  here  upon  the  flat 
All  that  long  morn  the  lists  were  hammer'd  up, 
And  all  that  morn  the  heralds  to  and  fro, 
With  message  and  defiance,  went  and  came ; 
Last,  Ida's  answer,  in  a  royal  hand, 
But  shaken  here  and  there,  and  rolling  words 
Oration-like.    I  kiss'd  it  and  I  read. 

"  O  brother,  you  have  known  the  pangs  we  felt. 
What  heats  of  indignation  when  we  heard 


98 


THE  PRINCESS :  A  MEDLEY. 


Of  those  that  iron-cramp'd  their  women's  feet; 

Of  lands  in  which  at  the  altar  the  poor  bride 

Gives  her  harsh  groom  for  bridal-gift  a  scourge ; 

Of  living  hearts  that  crack  within  the  fire 

Where  smoulder  their  dead  despots;  and  of  those,— 

Mothers, — that,  all  prophetic  pity,  fling 

Their  pretty  maids  in  the  running  flood,  and  swoops 

The  vulture,  beak  and  talon,  at  the  heart 

Made  for  all  noble  motion:  and  I  saw 

That  equal  baseness  lived  in  sleeker  times 

With  smoother  men :  the  old  leaven  leaven'd  all : 

Millions  of  throats  would  bawl  for  civil  rights, 

No  woman  named:  therefore  I  set  my  face 

Against  all  men,  and  lived  but  for  mine  own. 

Far  off  from  men  I  built  a  fold  for  them : 

I  stored  it  full  of  rich  memorial : 

I  fenced  it  round  with  gallant  institutes, 

And  biting  laws  to  scare  the  beasts  of  prey, 

And  prosper'd;  till  a  rout  of  saucy  boys 

Brake  on  us  at  our  books,  and  marr'd  our  peace, 

Mask'd  like  our  maids,  blustering  I  know  not  what 

Of  insolence  and  love,  some  pretext  held 

Of  baby  troth,  invalid,  since  my  will 

Seal'd  not  the  bond — the  striplings'. — for  their  sport! — 

I  tamed  my  leopards :  shall  I  not  tame  these  ? 

Or  yon  ?  or  I  ?  for  since  you  think  me  touch'd 

In  honor— what,  I  would  not  aught  of  false — 

Is  not  our  cause  pure  ?  and  whereas  I  know 

Your  prowess,  Arac,  and  what  mother's  blood 

You  draw  from,  fight;  you  failing,  I  abide 

What  end  soever:  fail  you  will  not    Still 

Take  not  his  life :  he  risk'd  it  for  my  own ; 

His  mother  lives :  yet  whatsoe'er  you  do, 

Fight  and  fight  well ;  strike  and  strike  home.    O  dear 

Brothers,  the  woman's  Angel  guards  you,  you 

The  sole  men  t'o  be  mingled  with  oar  cause, 

The  sole  men  we  shall  prize  in  the  after-time, 

Your  very  armor  hallow'd,  and  your  statues 

Rear'd,  sung  to,  when  this  gad-fly  brush'd  aside, 

We  plant  a  solid  foot  into  the  Time, 

And  mould  a  generation  strong  to  move 

With  claim  on  claim  from  right  to  right,  till  she 

Whose  name  is  yoked  with  children's,  know  herself; 

And  Knowledge  in,  onr  own  land  make  her  free, 

And,  ever  following  those  two  crowned  twins, 

Commerce  and  conquest,  shower  the  fiery  grain 

Of  freedom  broadcast  over  all  that  orbs 

Between  the  Northern  and  the  Southern  morn." 

Then  came  a  postcript  dash'd  across  the  rest. 
"  See  that  there  be  no  traitors  in  your  camp : 
We  seem  a  nest  of  traitors — none  to  trust : 
Since  our  arms  fail'd — this  Egypt  plague  of  men  ! 
Almost  our  maids  were  better  at  their  homes, 
Than  thus  man-girdled  here:  indeed  I  think 
Our  chiefest  comfort  is  the  little  child 
Of  one  unworthy  mother ;  which  she  left : 
She  shall  not  have  it  back :  the  child  shall  grow 
To  prize  the  authentic  mother  of  her  mind. 
I  took  it  for  an  hour  in  mine  own  bed 
This  morning:  there  the  tender  orphan  hands 
Felt  at  my  heart,  and  seem'd  to  charm  from  thence 
The  wrath  I  nursed  against  the  world :  farewell." 

I  ceased;  he  raid:  "Stubborn,  but  she  may  sit 
Upon  a  king's  right  hand  in  thunder-storms, 
And  breed  up  warriors  !    See  now,  tho'  yourself 
Be  dazzled  by  the  wildfire  Love  to  sloughs 
That  swallow  common  sense,  the  spindling  king, 
This  Gama  ewamp'd  in  lazy  tolerance. 
When  the  man  wants  weight,  the  woman  takes  it  up, 
And  topples  down  the  scales ;  but  this  is  fist 
As  are  the  roots  of  earth  and  base  of  all ; 
Man  for  the  field  and  woman  for  the  hearth; 
Man  for  the  sword  and  for  the  needle  she: 
Man  with  the  head  and  woman  with  the  heart: 
JIan  to  command  and  woman  to  obey ; 


All  else  confusion.    Look  you !  the  gray  mare 
Is  ill  to  live  with,  when  her  whinny  shrills 
From  tile  to  scullery,  and  her  small  goodman 
Shrjiiks  in  his  arm-chair  while  the  fires  of  Hell 
Mix  with  his  hearth:  but  you — she's  yet  a  colt- 
Take,  break  her :  strongly  groom'd  and  straitly  curb'd 
She  might  not  rank  with  those  detestable 
That  let  the  bantling  scald  at  home,  and  brawl 
Their  rights  or  wrongs  like  potherbs  in  the  street. 
They  say  she's  comely ;  there's  the  fairer  chance : 
I  like  her  none  the  less  for  rating  at  her  1 
Besides,  the  woman  wed  is  not  as  we, 
But  suffers  change  of  frame.    A  lusty  brnce 
Of  twins  may  weed  her  of  her  folly.    Boy, 
The  bearing  and  the  training  of  a  child 
Is  woman's  wisdom." 

Thus  the  hard  old  king: 
I  took  my  leave,  for  it  was  nearly  noon : 
I  pored  upon  her  letter  which  I  held, 
And  on  the  little  clause  "take  not  his  life:" 
I  mused  on  that  wild  morning  in  the  wood?, 
And  on  the  "Follow,  follow,  thou  shalt  win:" 
I  thought  on  all  the  wrathful  king  had  said, 
And  how  the  strange  betrothment  was  to  end: 
Then  I  remeniber'd  that  burnt  sorcerer's  curse 
That  one  should  fight  with  shadows  and  should  fall ; 
And  like  a  flash  the  weird  affection  came: 
King,  camp  and  college  turn'd  to  hollow  shows; 
I  seem'd  to  move  in  old  memorial  tilts, 
And  doing  battle  with  forgotten  ghosts, 
To  dream  myself  the  shadow  of  a  dream : 
And  ere  I  woke  it  was  the  point  of  noon, 
The  lists  were  ready.    Empanoplied  and  plumed 
We  euter'd  in,  and  waited,  fifty  there 
Opposed  to  fifty,  till  the  trumpet  blared 
At  the  barrier  like  a  wild  horn  in  a  land 
Of  echoes,  and  a  moment,  and  once  more 
The  trumpet,  and  again :  at  which  the  storm 
Of  galloping  hoofs  bare  on  the  ridge  of  spears 
And  riders  front  to  front,  until  they  closed 
In  conflict  with  the  crash  of  shivering  points, 
And  thunder.    Yet  it  seem'd  a  dream ;  I  dream'd 
Of  fighting.    On  his  haunches  rose  the  steed, 
And  into  fiery  splinters  leapt  the  lance, 
And  out  of  stricken  helmets  sprang  the  fire. 
A  noble  dream !  what  was  it  else  I  saw  ? 
Part  sat  like  rocks ;  part  reel'd  but  kept  their  seats  . 
Part  roll'd  on  the  earth  and  rose  again  and  drew: 
Part  stumbled  mixt  with  floundering  horses.    Down 
From  those  two  bulks  at  Arac's  side,  and  down 
From  Arac's  arm,  as  from  a  giant's  flail, 
The  large  blows  rain'd,  as  here  and  everywhere 
lie  rode  the  mellay,  lord  of  the  ringing  lists, 
And    all   the    plain— brand,  mace,  and   shaft,  and 

shield— 

Shock'd,  like  an  iron-clanging  anvil  bang'd 
With  hammers ;  till  I  thought,  can  this  be  he 
From  Gama's  dwarfish  loins  1  if  this  be  so, 
The  mother  makes  us  most — and  in  my  dream 
I  glanced  aside,  and  saw  the  palace-front 
Alive  with  fluttering  scarfs  and  ladies*  eyes, 
And  highest,  among  the  statues,  statue-like, 
Between  a  cymbal'd  Miriam  and  a  Jael, 
With  Psyche's  babe,  was  Ida  watching  us, 
A  single  band  of  gold  about  her  hair, 
Like  a  Saint's  glory  up  in  heaven :  but  she 
No  saint — inexorable— no  tenderness — 
Too  hard,  too  cruel :  yet  she  sees  me  fight, 
Yea,  let  her  see  me  fall !  with  that  I  drave 
Among  the  thickest  and  bore  down  a  Prince, 
And  Cyril,  one.    Yea,  let  me  make  my  dream 
All  that  I  would.    But  that  large-moulded  man, 
His  visage  all  agrin  as  at  a  wake, 
Made  at  me  thro'  the  press,  and,  staggering  back 
With  stroke  on  stroke  the  horse  and  horseman,  came 
As  comes  a  pillar  of  electric  cloud, 
Flaying  the  roofs  and  sucking  up  the  drains, 
And  shadowing  down  the  champaign  till  it  strikes 


THE  PRINCESS:  A  MEDLEY. 


99 


On  a  wood,  and  takes,  and  breaks,  and  cracks,  and 

splits, 

And  twists  the  grain  with  such  a  roar  that  Earth 
Keels,  and  the  herdsmen  cry ;  for  everything 
Gave  way  before  him :  only  Florian,  he 
That  loved  me  closer  than  his  own  right  eye, 
Thrnst  in  between ;  but  Arac  rode  him  dowii : 
And  Cyril  seeing  it,  push'd  against  the  Prince, 
With  Psyche's  color  round  his  helmet,  tough, 
Strong,  supple,  sinew-corded,  apt  at  arms ; 
But  tougher,  heavier,  stronger,  he  that  smote 
And  threw  him :  last  I  spurr'd ;  I  felt  my  veins 
Stretch  with  fierce  heat ;  a  moment  hand  to  hand, 
And  sword  to  sword,  and  horse  to  horse  we  hung, 
Till  I  struck  out  and  shouted ;  the  blade  glanced ; 
I  did  but  shear  a  feather,  and  dream  and  truth 
Flow'd  from  me ;  darkness  closed  me ;  and  I  fell. 


Home  they  brought  her  warrior  dead: 
She  nor  swoon'd,  nor  utter'd  cry: 

All  her  maidens,  watching,  said, 
"She  must  weep  or  she  will  die." 

Then  they  praised  him,  soft  and  low, 

Call'd  him  worthy  to  be  loved, 
Truest  friend-  and  noblest  foe  ; 

Yet  she  neither  spoke  nor  moved. 

Stole  a  maiden  from  her  place, 

Lightly  to  the  warrior  slept, 
Took  the  face-cloth  from  the  face ; 

Yet  she  neither  moved  nor  wept. 

Rose  a  nurse  of  ninety  years, 

Set  his  child  upon  her  knee — 
Like  summer  tempest  came  her  tears — 

"Sweet  my  child,  I  live  for  thee." 

VI. 

MY  dream  had  never  died  or  lived  again. 
As  in  some  mystic  middle  state  I  lay 
Seeing  I  saw  not,  hearing  not  I  heard : 
Tho',  if  I  saw  not,  yet  they  told  me  all 
So  often  that  I  spake  as  having  seen. 

For  so  it  seem'd,  or  so  they  said  to  me, 
That  all  things  grew  more  tragic  and  more  strange ; 
That  when  our  side  was  vanquish'd  and  my  cause 
Forever  lost,  there  went  up  a  great  cry, 
The  Prince  is  slain.    My  father  heard  and  ran 
In  on  the  lists,  and  there  unlaced  my  casque 
And  grovell'd  on  my  body,  and  after  him 
Came  Psyche,  sorrowing  for  Aglaia. 

But  high  upon  the  palace  Ida  stood 
With  Psyche's  babe  in  arm :  there  on  the  roofs 
Like  that  great  dame  of  Lapidoth  she  sang. 

"  Our  enemies  have  fall'n,  have  fall'n  ;  the  seed 
The  little  seed  they  laugh'd  at  in  the  dark, 
Has  risen  and  cleft  the  soil,  and  grown  a  bulk 
Of  spanless  girth,  that  lays  on  every  side 
A  thousand  arms  and  rushes  to  the  Sun. 

"Oar  enemies  have  fall'n,  have  fall'n:  they  came: 
The  leaves  were  wet  with  women's  tears :  they  heard 
A  noise  of  songs  they  would  not  understand  : 
They  mark'd  it  with,  the  red  cross  to  the  fall, 
And  would  have  strowu  it,  and  are  fall'n  themselves. 

"  Our  enemies  have  fall'n,  have  fall'n :  they  came, 
The  woodmen  with  their  axes :  lo  the  tree ! 
But  we  will  make  it  fagots  for  the  hearth, 
And  shape  it  plank  and  beam  for  roof  and  floor, 
And  boats  and  bridges  for  the  use  of  men. 

"  Our  enemies  have  fall'n,  have  fall'n :  they  struck ; 
With  their  own  blows  they  hurt  themselves,  nor 
knew 


There  dwelt  an  iron  nature  in  the  grain : 
The  glittering  axe  was  broken  in  their  arms, 
Their  arms  were  shatter'd  to  the  shoulder  blade. 

"  Our  enemies  have  fall'n,  but  this  shall  grow 
A  night  of  Summer  from  the  heat,  a  breadth 
Of  Autumn,  dropping  fruits  of  power ;  and  roll'd 
With  music  in  the  growing  breeze  of  Time, 
The  tops  shall  strike  from  star  to  star,  the  fangs 
Shall  move  the  stony  bases  of  the  world. 

"And  now,  O  maids,  behold  our  sanctuary 
Is  violate,  our  laws  broken :  fear  we  not 
To  break  them  more  in  their  behoof,  whose  arms 
Champion' d  our  cause  and  won  it  with  a  day 
Blanch'd  in  our  annals,  and  perpetual  feast, 
When  dames  and  heroines  of  the  golden  year 
Shall  strip  a  hundred  hollows  bare  of  Spring, 
To  rain  an  April  of  ovation  round 
Their  statues,  borne  aloft,  the  three :  but  come, 
We  will  be  liberal,  since  our  rights  are  won. 
Let  them  not  lie  in  the  tents  with  coarse  mankind, 
111  nurses;  but  descend,  and  proffer  these 
The  brethren  of  our  blood  and  cause,  that  there 
Lie  bruised  and  maim'd,  the  tender  ministries 
Of  female  hands  and  hospitality." 

She  spoke,  and  with  the  babe  yet  in  her  arms, 
Descending,  burst  the  great  bronze  valves,  and  led 
A  hundred  maids  in  train  across  the  Park. 
Some  cowl'd,  and  some  bare-headed,  on  they  came, 
Their  feet  in  flowers,  her  loveliest :  by  them  went 
The  enamord  air  sighing,  and  on  their  curls 
From  the  high  tree  the  blossom  wavering  fell, 
And  over  them  the  tremulous  isles  of  light, 
Slided,  they  moving  under  shade  :  but  Blanche 
At  distance  follow'd:  so  they  came:  anon 
Thro'  open  field  into  the  lists  they  wound 
Timorously ;  and  as  the  leader  of  the  herd 
That  holds  a  stately  fretwork  to  the  Sun, 
And  follow'd  up  by  a  hundred  airy  does, 
Steps  with  a  tender  foot,  light  as  on  air, 
The  lovely,  lordly  creature  floated  on 
To  where  her  wounded  brethren  lay;  there  stay'fl; 
Knelt  on  one  knee,— the  child  on  one,— and  prest 
Their  hands,  and  call'd  them  dear  deliverers, 
And  happy  warriors  and  immortal  names, 
And  said,  "Yon  shall  not  lie  in  the  tents  but  here, 
And  nursed  by  those  for  whom  you  fought,  and 

served 
With  female  hands  and  hospitality." 

Then,  whether  moved  by  this,  or  was  it  chance, 
She  past  my  way.    Up  started  from  my  side 
The  old  lion,  glaring  with  his  wlielpless  eye, 
Silent ;  but  when  she  saw  me  lying  stark, 
Dishelm'd  and  mute,  and  motionlessly  pale, 
Cold  ev'n  to  her,  she  sigh'd ;  and  when  she  saw 
The  haggard  father's  face  and  reverend  beard 
Of  grisly  twine,  all  dabbled  with  the  blood 
Of  his  own  son,  shudder'd,  a  twitch  of  pain 
Tortured  her  mouth,  and  o'er  her  forehead  past 
A  shadow,  and  her  hue  changed,  and  she  said: 
"He  saved  my  life:  my  brother  slew  him  for  it" 
No  more :  at  which  the  king  in  bitter  scorn 
Drew  from  my  neck  the  painting  and  the  tress, 
And  held  them  up :  she  saw  them,  and  a  day 
Rose  from  the  distance  on  her  memory, 
When  the  good  Queen,  her  mother,  shore  the  tress 
With  kisses,  ere  the  days  of  Lady  Blanche : 
And  then  once  more  she  look'd  at  my  pale  face : 
Till  understanding  all  the  foolish  work 
Of  Fancy,  and  the  bitter  close  of  all, 
Her  iron  will  was  broken  in  her  mind; 
Her  noble  heart  was  molten  in  her  breast ; 
She  bow'd,  she  set  the  child  on  the  earth:  she  laid 
A  feeling  finger  on  my  brows,  and  presently 


100 


THE  PRINCESS :   A  MEDLEY. 


"O  Sire,"  she  said,  "he  lives:  he  is  not  dead: 
O  let  me  have  him  with  my  brethren  here 
In  our  own  palace :  we  will  tend  on  him 
Like  one  of  these  ;  if  so,  by  any  means, 
To  lighten  this  great  clog  of  thanks,  that  make 
Our  progress  falter  to  the  woman's  goal." 

She  said:  but  at  the  happy  word  "he  lives," 
My  father  stoop'd,  re-father'd  o'er  my  wounds. 
80  those  two  foes  above  my  fallen  life, 
With  brow  to  brow  like  night  and  evening  mixt 
Their  dark  and  gray,  while  Psyche  ever  stole 
A  little  nearer,  till  the  babe  that  by  us, 
Half-lapt  in  glowing  gauze  and  golden  brede, 
Lay  like  a  new-fall'n  meteor  on  the  grass, 
Uncared  for,  spied  its  mother  and  began 
A  blind  and  babbling  laughter,  and  to  dance 
Its  body,  and  reach  its  fatling  innocent  arms 
And  lazy  lingering  fingers.    She  the  appeal 
Brook'd  not,  but  clamoring  out  "Mine — mine — not 

yours, 

It  is  not  yours,  but  mine :  give  me  the  child," 
Ceased  all  on  tremble:  piteous  was  the  cry: 
So  stood  the  unhappy  mother  open-mouth'd, 
And  turn'd  each  face  her  way:   wan  was  her  cheek 
With  hollow  watch,  her  blooming  mantle  torn, 
Red  grief  and  mother's  hunger  in  her  eye, 
And  down  dead-heavy  sank  her  curls,  and  half 
The  sacred  mother's  bosom,  panting,  burst 
The  laces  toward  her  babe ;  but  she  nor  cared 
Nor  knew  it,  clamoring  on,  till  Ida  heard, 
Look'd  up,  and  rising  slowly  from  me,  stood 
Erect  and  silent,  striking  with  her  glance 
The  mother,  me,  the  child ;  but  he  that  lay 
Beside  us,  Cyril,  batter'd  as  he  was, 
Trail'd  himself  up  on  one  knee:  then  he  drew 
Her  robe  to  meet  his  lips,  anil  down  she  look'd 
At  the  arm'd  man  sideways,  pitying,  as  it  seem'd, 
Or  self-involved;  but  when  she  learnt  his  face, 
Remembering  his  ill-omen'd  song,  arose 
Once  more  thro'  all  her  height,  and  o'er  him  grew 
Tall  as  a  figure  lengthen'd  on  the  sand 
When  the  tide  ebbs  in  sunshine,  and  he  said: 

"O  fair  and  strong  and  terrible!    Lioness 
That  with  your  long  locks  play  the  Lion's  mane  ! 
But  Love  and  Nature,  these  are  two  more  terrible 
And  stronger.    See,  your  foot  is  on  our  necks, 
We  vanquished,  you  the  Victor  of  your  will. 
What  would  yon  more  ?  give  her  the  child !  remain 
Orb'd  in  your  isolation:  he  is  dead, 
Or  all  as  dead :  henceforth  we  let  yon  be : 
Win  you  the  hearts  of  women ;  and  beware 
Lest,  where  yon  seek  the  common  love  of  these, 
The  common  hate  with  the  revolving  wheel 
Should  drag  you  down,  and  some  great  Nemesis 
Break  from  a  darken'd  future,  crown'd  with  flre, 
And  tread  you  out  forever:  but  howsoe'er 
Fix'd  in  yourself,  never  in  your  own  arms 
To  hold  your  own,  deny  not  hers  to  her, 
Give  her  the  child !    O  if,  I  say,  you  keep 
One  pulse  that  beats  true  woman,  if  you  loved 
The  breast  that  fed  or  arm  that  dandled  you, 
Or  own  one  "part  of  sense  not  flint  to  prayer, 
Give  her  the  child !  or  if -you  scorn  to  lay  it, 
Yourself,  in  hands  so  lately  claspt  with  yours, 
Or  speak  to  her,  your  dearest,  her  one  fault 
The  tenderness,  not  yours,  that  could  not  kill, 
Give  me  it;  I  will  give  it  her." 

He  said: 

At  first  her  eye  with  slow  dilation  roll'd 
Dry  flame,  she  listening:  after  sank  and  sank 
And,  into  mournful  twilight  mellowing,  dwelt 
Pull  on  the  child;  she  took  it:  "Pretty  bud! 
Lily  of  the  vale :  half-open'd  bell  of  the  woods ! 
Sole  comfort  of  my  dark  hour,  when  a  world 
Of  traitorous  friend  and  broken  system  made 
No  purple  in  the  distance,  mystery, 


Pledge  of  a  love  not  to  be  mine,  farewell ; 
These  men  are  hard  upon  us  as  of  old, 
We  two  must  part:  and  yet  how  fain  was  I 
To  dream  thy  cause  embraced  in  mine,  to  think 
I  might  be  something  to  thee,  when  I  felt 
Thy  helpless  warmth  about  my  barren  breast 
In  the  dead  prime :  but  may  thy  mother  prove 
As  true  to  thee  as  false,  false,  false  to  me ! 
And,  if  thou  needs  must  bear  the  yoke,  I  wish  it 
Gentle  as  freedom" — here  she  kissed  it:  then — 
"All  good  go  with  thee!  take  it,  Sir,"  aud  so 
Laid  the  soft  babe  in  his  hard-mailed  hands, 
Who  turn'd  half-round  to  Psyche  as  she  sprang 
To  meet  it,  with  an  eye  that  swum  in  thanks ; 
Then  felt  it  sound  and  whole  from  head  to  foot, 
And  hugg'd  and  never  hngg'd  it  close  enough, 
And  in  her  hunger  mouth'd  and  mumbled  it, 
And  hid  her  bosom  with  it;  after  that 
Put  on  more  calm  and  added  suppliautly: 

"  We  two  were  friends :  I  go  to  mine  own  land 
Forever :  find  some  other :  as  for  me 
I  scarce   am  fit  for  your  great  plans  :   yet  speal 

to  me, 
Say  one  soft  word  and  let  me  part  forgiven." 

But  Ida  spoke  not,  rapt  upon  the  child. 
Then  Arac.    " Ida— 'sdeath !  you  blame  the  man; 
You  wrong  yourselves— the  woman  is  so  hard 
Upon  the  woman.    Come,  a  grace  to  me ! 
I  am  your  warrior ;  I  and  mine  have  fought 
Your  battle :  kiss  her ;  take  her  hand,  she  weeps : 
'Sdeath  !  I  would  sooner  fight  thrice  o'er  than  see  it." 

But  Ida  spoke  not,  gazing  on  the  ground, 
And  reddening  in  the  furrows  of  his  chin, 
And  moved  beyond  his  custom,  Gaiia  said: 

"I've  heard  that  there  is  iron  in  the  blood, 
And  I  believe  it.    Not  one  word?  not  one? 
Whence  drew  you  this  steel  temper  ?  not  from  me, 
Not  from  your  mother  now  a  saint  with  saints. 
She  said  yon  had  a  heart — I  heard  her  say  it — 
'Our  Ida  has  a  heart'— just  ere  she  died — 
'But  see  that  some  one  with  authority 
Be  near  her  still,'  and  I — I  sought  for  one — 
All  people  said  she  had  authority— 
The  Lady  Blanche :  much  profit !    Not  one  word  ; 
No!  tho'  your  father  sues:  see  how  you  stand 
Stiff  as  Lot's  wife,  and  all  the  good  knights  maiin'J, 
I  trust  that  there  is  no  one  hurt  to  death, 
For  your  wild  whim :  and  was  it  then  for  this, 
Was  it  for  this  we  gave  our  palace  up, 
Where  we  withdrew  from  summer  heats  and  state, 
And  had  our  wine  and  chess  beneath  the  planes, 
And  many  a  pleasant  hour  with  her  that's  gone, 
Ere  you  were  born  to  vex  us?    Is  it  kind? 
Speak  to  her  I  say:  is  this  not  she  of  whom. 
When  first  she  came,  all  flush'd  you  said  to  me 
Now  had  you  got  a  friend  of  your  own  age, 
Now  could  you  share  your  thought ;  now  should 

men  see 

Two  women  faster  welded  in  one  love 
Than  pairs  of  wedlock ;  she  you  walk'd  with,  she 
You  talk'd  with,  whole  nights  long,  up  in  the  tower, 
Of  sine  and  arc,  spheroid  and  azimuth, 
And  right  ascension,  Heaven  knows  what ;  and  now 
A  word,  but  one,  one  little  kindly  word, 
Not  one  to  spare  her:  out  upon  you,  flint! 
Yon  love  nor  her,  nor  me,  nor  any ;  nay, 
Yon  shame  your  mother's  judgment  too.    Not  one  ? 
You  will  not  ?  well— no  heart  have  you,  or  such 
As  fancies  like  the  vermin  in  a  nnt 
Have  fretted  all  to  dust  and  bitterness." 
So  said  the  small  king  moved  beyond  his  wont. 

But  Ida  stood  nor  spoke,  drain'd  of  her  force 
By  many  a  varying  influence  and  so  long. 


THE  PRINCESS:  A  MEDLEY. 


101 


Down  thro'  her  limbs  a  drooping  languor  wept: 

Her  head  a  little  bent;  and  on  her  mouth 

A  doubtful  smile  dwelt  like  a  clouded  moon 

In  a  still  water:  then  brake  out  my  sire 

Lifting  his  grim  head  from  my  wounds.    "O  you, 

Woman,  whom  we  thought  woman  even  now, 

And  were  half  fool'd  to  let  you  tend  our  son, 

Because  he  might  have  wish'd  it— but  we  see 

The  accomplice  of  your  madness  unforgiven, 

And  think  that  you  might  mix  his  draught  with 

death, 

When  your  skies  change  again :  the  rougher  hand 
Is  safer:  on  to  the  tents:  take  up  the  Prince." 

He  rose,  and  while  each  ear  was  prick'd  to  attend 
A  tempest,  thro'  the  cloud  that  dimm'd  her  broke 
A  genial  warmth  and  light  once  more,  and  shone 
Thro'  glittering  drops  on  her  sad  friend. 

"  Come  hither, 

0  Psyche,"  she  cried  out,  "embrace  me,  come, 
Quick  while  I  melt;  make  a  reconcilement  sure 
With  one  that  cannot  keep  her  mind  an  hour: 
Come  to  the  hollow  heart  they  slander  so ! 
Kiss  and  be  friends,  like  children  being  chid ! 
/seem  no  more:  /want  forgiveness  too: 

1  should  have  had  to  do  with  none  but  maids, 
That  have  no  links  with  men.    Ah  false  but  dear, 
Dear  traitor,  too  much  loved,  why?— why?    Yet  see 
Before  these  kings  we  embrace  you  yet  once  more 
With  all  forgiveness,  all  oblivion, 

And  trust,  not  love,  you  less. 

And  now,  O  Sire, 

Grant  -me  your  sou,  to  nurse,  to  wait  upon  him, 
Like  mine  own  brother.    For  my  debt  to  him, 
This  nightmare  weight  of  gratitude,  I  know  it ; 
Taunt  me  no  more:  yourself  and  yours  shall  have 
Free  adit ;  we  will  scatter  all  our  maids 
Till  happier  times  each  to  her  proper  hearth: 
What  use  to  keep  them  here  now  ?  grant  my  prayer. 
Help,  father,  brother,  help ;  speak  to  the  king : 
Thaw  this  male  nature  to  some  touch  of  that 
Which  kills  me  with  myself,  and  drags  me  down 
From  my  fixt  height  to  mob  me  up  with  all 
The  soft  and  milky  rabble  of  womankind, 
Poor  weakling  ev'n  as  they  are." 

Passionate  tears 

Follow'd :  the  king  replied  not :  Cyril  said : 
"Your  brother,  Lady, — Florian, — ask  for  him 
Of  your  great  head — for  he  is  wounded  too — 
That  you  may  tend  upon  him  with  the  prince." 
"  Ay  so,"  said  Ida  with  a  bitter  smile, 
"  Our  laws  are  broken :  let  him  enter  too." 
Then  Violet,  she  that  sang  the  mournful  song, 
And  had  a  cousin  tumbled  on  the  plain, 
Petition'd  too  for  him.     "Ay  so,"  she  said, 
"I  stagger  in  the  stream:  I  cannot  keep 
My  heart  an  eddy  from  the  brawling  hour : 
We  break  our  laws  with  ease,  but  let  it  be." 
"Ay  so?''  said  Blanche:  "Amazed  am  I  to  hear 
Your  Highness :  but  your  Highness  breaks  with  ease 
The  law  your  Highness  did  not  make :  'twas  I. 
I  had  been  wedded  wife,  I  knew  mankind, 
And  block'd  them  out ;  but  these  men  came  to  woo 
Your  Highness— verily  I  think  to  win." 

So  she,  and  turn'd  askance  a  wintry  eye : 
But  Ida  with  a  voice,  that  like  a  bell 
Toll'd  by  an  earthquake  in  a  trembling  tower, 
Rang  ruin,  answer'd  full  of  grief  and  scorn. 

"  Fling  onr  doors  wide !  all,  all,  not  one,  but  all, 
Not  only  he,  but  by  my  mother's  soul, 
Whatever  man  lies  wounded,  friend  or  foe, 
Shall  enter,  if  he  will.    Let  our  girls  flit, 
Till  the  storm  die  !    but  had  yon  stood  by  us, 
The  roar  that  breaks  the  Pharos  from  his  base 
Had  left  us  rock.    She  fain  would  sting  us  too, 


But  shall  not.    Pass,  and  mingle  with  your  likes. 
We  brook  no  further  insult  but  are  gone." 

She  turn'd ;  the  very  nape  of  her  white  neck 
Was  rosed  with  indignation :  but  the  Prince 
Her  brother  came ;  the  king  her  father  charm'd 
Her  wounded  soul  with  words:  nor  did  mine  own 
Refuse  her  profier,  lastly  gave  his  hand. 

Then  us  they  lifted  up,  dead  weights,  and  bare 
Straight  to  the  doors:  to  them  the  doors  gave  way 
Groaning,  and  in  the  Vestal  entry  shriek'd 
The  virgin  marble  under  iron  heels: 
And  on  they  moved  and  gain'd  the  hall,  and  there 
Rested:  but  great  the  crush  was,  and  each  base, 
To  left  and  right,  of  those  tall  columns  drown'd 
In  silken  fluctuation  and  the  swarm 
Of  female  whisperers:  at  the  further  end 
Was  Ida  by  the  throne,  the  two  great  cats 
Close  by  her,  like  supporters  on  a  shield, 
Bow-back'd  with  fear:  but  in  the  centre  stood 
The  common  men  with  rolling  eyes ;  amazed 
They  glared  upon  the  women,  and  aghast 
The  women  stared  at  these,  all  silent,  save 
When  armor  clash'd  or  jingled,  while  the  day, 
Descending,  struck  athwart  the  hall,  and  shot 
A  flying  splendor  out  of  brass  and  steel, 
That  o'er  the  statues  leapt  from  head  to  head, 
Now  fired  an  angry  Pallas  on  the  helm, 
Now  set  a  wrathful  Dian's  moon  on  flame, 
And  now  and  then  an  echo  started  up, 
And  shuddering  fled  from  room  to  room,  and  died 
Of  fright  in  far  apartments. 

Then  the  voice 

Of  Ida  sounded,  issuing  ordinance : 
And  me  they  bore  up  the  broad  stairs,  and  thro' 
The  long-laid  galleries  past  a  hundred  doors 
To  one  deep  chamber  shut  from  sound,  and  due 
To  languid  limbs  and  sickness  ;  left  me  in  it ; 
And  others  otherwhere  they  laid ;  and  all 
That  afternoon  a  sound  arose  of  hoof 
And  chariot,  many  a  maiden  passing  home 
Till  happier  times ;  but  some  were  left  of  those 
Held  sagest,  and  the  great  lords  out  and  in, 
From  those  two  hosts  that  lay  beside  the  walls, 
Walk'd  at  their  will,  and  everything  was  changed. 


Ask  me  no  more :  the  moon  may  draw  the  sea ; 
The  cloud  may  stoop  from  heaven  and  take  the 

shape, 

With  fold  to  fold,  of  mountain  or  of  cape ; 
But  O  too  fond,  when  have  I  answer'd  thee? 
Ask  me  no  more. 

Ask  me  no  more:  what  answer  should  I  give? 
I  love  not  hollow  cheek  or  faded  eye : 
Yet,  O  my  friend,  I  will  not  have  thee  die ! 

Ask  me  no  more,  lest  I  should  bid  thee  live ; 
Ask  me  no  more. 

Ask  me  no  more:  thy  fate  and  mine  are  seal'd: 
I  strove  against  the  stream  and  all  in  vain: 
Let  the  great  river  take  me  to  the  main: 

No  more,  dear  love,  for  at  a  touch  I  yield ; 
Ask  me  no  more. 

.      VII. 

So  was  their  sanctuary  violated, 

So  their  fair  college  turn'd  to  hospital; 

At  first  with  all  confusion :  by  and  by 

Sweet  order  lived  again  with  other  laws : 

A  kindlier  influence  reign'd;  and  everywhere 

Low  voices  with  the  ministering  hand 

Hung  round  the  sick :  the  maidens  came,  they  talk'd, 

They  sang,  they  read :  till  she  not  fair,  began 

To  gather  light,  and  she  that  was,  became 

Her  former  beauty  treble ;  and  to  and  fro 


102 


THE  PRINCESS  :  A  MEDLEY. 


With  books,  with  flowers,  with  Angel  offices, 
Like  creatures  native  unto  gracious  act, 
And  in  their  own  clear  element,  they  moved. 

But  sadness  on  the  soul  of  Ida  fell, 
And  hatred  of  her  weakness,  blent  with  shame. 
Old  studies  fail'd;  seldom  she  spoke;  but  oft 
Clomb  to  the  roofs,  and  gazed  alone  for  hours 
On  that  disastrous  leaguer,  swarms  of  men 
Darkening  her  female  field:  void  was  her  use; 
And  she  as  one  that  climbs  a  peak  to  gaze 
O'er  land  and  main,  and  sees  a  great  black  cloud 
Drag  inward  from  the  deeps,  a  wall  of  night, 
Blot  out  the  slope  of  sea  from  verge  to  shore, 
And  suck  the  blinding  splendor  from  the  sand, 
And  quenching  lake  by  lake  and  tarn  by  tarn 
Expunge  the  world :  so  fared  she  gazing  there ; 
So  blacken'd  all  her  world  in  secret,  blank 
And  waste  it  seem'd  and  vain ;  till  down  she  came, 
And  found  fair  peace  once  more  among  the  sick. 

And  twilight  dawn'd  ;  and  morn  by  morn  the  lark 
Shot  up  and  shrill'd  in  flickering  gyres,  but  I 
Lay  silent  in  the  muffled  cage  of  life : 
And  twilight  gloom'd ;  and  broader-grown  the  bowers 
Drew  the  great  night  into  themselves,  and  Heaven, 
Star  after  star,  arose  and  fell;  but  I, 
Deeper  than  those  weird  doubts  could  reach  me,  lay 
Quite  sunder'd  from  the  moving  Universe, 
Nor  knew  what  eye  was  on  me,  nor  the  hand 
That  nursed  me,  more  than  infants  in  their  sleep. 

But  Psyche  tended  Florian:  with  her  oft 
Melissa  came ;  for  Blanche  had  gone,  but  left 
Her  child  among  us,  willing  she  should  keep 
Court-favor:  here  and  there  the  small  bright  head, 
A  light  of  healing  glanced  about  the  couch, 
Or  thro'  the  parted  silks  the  tender  face 
Peep'd,  shining  in  upon  the  wounded  man 
With  blush  and  smile,  a  medicine  in  themselves 
To  wile  the  length  from  languorous  hours,  and  draw 
The  sting  from  pain ;  nor  seem'd  it  strange  that  soon 
He  rose  up  whole,  and  those  fair  charities 
Join'd  at  her  side;  nor  stranger  seem'd  that  hearts 
So  gentle,  so  employ'd,  should  close  in  love, 
Than  when  two  dew-drops  on  the  petal  shake 
To  the  same  sweet  air,  and  tremble  deeper  down, 
And  slip  at  once  all-fragrant  into  one. 

Less  prosperously  the  second  suit  obtain'd 
At  first  with  Psyche.    Not  though  Blanche  had  sworn 
That  after  that  dark  night  among  the  fields, 
She  needs  must  wed  him  for  her  own  good  name ; 
Not  tho'  he  built  upon  the  babe  restored ; 
Nor  tho'  she  liked  him,  yielded  she,  but  fear'd 
To  incense  the  Head  once  more ;  till  on  a  day 
When  Cyril  pleaded,  Ida  came  behind 
Been  but  of  Psyche :  on  her  foot  she  hung 
A  moment,  and  she  heard,  at  which  her  face 
A  little  flush'd,  and  she  past  on ;  but  each 
Assumed  from  thence,  a  half-consent  involved 
In  stillness,  plighted  troth,  and  were  at  peace. 

Nor  only  these :  Love  in  the  sacred  halls 
Held  carnival  at  will,  and  flying  struck 
With  showers  of  random  sweet  on  maid  and  man. 
Nor  did  her  father  cease  to  press  my  claim, 
Nor  did  mine  own  now  reconciled;  nor  yet 
Did  those  twin  brothers,  risen  again  and  whole ; 
Nor  Arac,  satiate  with  his  victory. 

But  I  lay  still,  and  with  me  oft  she  sat : 
Then  came  a  change;  for  sometimes  I  would  catch 
Her  hand  in  wild  delirium,  gripe  it  hard, 
And  fling  it  like  a  viper  off,  and  shriek 
"You  are  not  Ida;"  clasp  it  once  again, 
And  call  her  Ida,  tho'  I  knew  her  not, 
And  call  her  sweet,  as  if  in  irony, 


And  call  her  hard  and  cold  which  seem'd  a  truth : 
And  still  she  fear'd  that  I  should  lose  my  mind, 
And  often  she  believed  that  I  should  die: 
Till  out  of  long  frustration  of  her  care, 
And  pensive  teudance  in  the  all-weary  noons, 
And  watches  in  the  dead,  the  dark,  when  clocks 
Throbb'd  thunder  thro'  the  palace  floors,  or  call'd 
On  flying  Time  from  all  their  silver  tongues — 
And  out  of  memories  of  her  kindlier  days, 
And  sidelong  glances  at  my  father's  grief, 
And  at  the  happy  lovers  heart  in  heart — 
And  out  of  hauntings  of  my  spoken  love, 
And  lonely  listenings  to  my  mutter'd  dream, 
And  often  feeling  of  the  helpless  hands, 
And  wordless  broodings  on  the  wasted  cheek — 
From  all  a  closer  interest  flourish'd  up, 
Tenderness  touch  by  touch,  and  last,  to  these, 
Love,  like  an  Alpine  harebell  hung  with  tears 
By  some  cold  morning  glacier ;  frail  at  first 
And  feeble,  all  unconscious  of  itself, 
But  such  as  gather'd  color  day  by  day. 

Last  I  woke  sane,  but  wellnigh  close  to  death 
For  weakness:  it  was  evening:  silent  light 
Slept  on  the  painted  walls,  wherein  were  wrought 
Two  grand  designs:  for  on  one  side  arose 
The  women  up  in  wild  revolt,  and  storm'd 
At  the  Oppian  law.    Titanic  shapes,  they  cramm'd 
The  forum,  and  half-crush'd  among  the  rest 
A  dwarflike  Cato  cower'd.    On  the  other  side 
Hortensia  spoke  against  the  tax ;  behind, 
A  train  of  dames :  by  axe  and  eagle  sat, 
With  all  their  foreheads  drawn  in  Roman  scowls, 
And  half  the  wolf  s-milk  curdled  in  their  veins, 
The  fierce  triumvirs;  and  before  them  paused 
Hortensia,  pleading:  angry  was  her  face. 

I  saw  the  forms :  I  knew  not  where  I  was  < 
They  did  but  seem  as  hollow  shows;  nor  more 
Sweet  Ida :  palm  to  palm  she  sat :  the  dew 
Dwelt  in  her  eyes,  and  softer  all  her  shape 
And  rounder  show'd:  I  moved:  I  sigh'd:  a  touch 
Came  round  my  wrist,  and  tears  upon  my  hand: 
Then  all  for  languor  and  self-pity  rau 
Mine  down  my  face,  and  with  what  life  I  had, 
And  like  a  flower  that  cannot  all  unfold, 
So  drench'd  it  is  with  tempest,  to  the  sun, 
Yet,  as  it  may,  turns  toward  him,  I  on  her 
Fixt  my  faint  eyes,  and  utter'd  whispcringly : 

"  If  you  be,  what  I  think  you,  some  sweet  dream, 
I  would  but  ask  you  to  fulfil  yourself: 
But  if  you  be  that  Ida  whom  I  knew, 
I  ask  you  nothing  :  only,  if  a  dream, 
Sweet  dream,  be  perfect.    I  shall  die  to-night. 
Stoop  down  and  seem  to  kiss  me  ere  I  die." 

I  could  no  more,  but  lay  like  one  in  trance, 
That  hears  his  burial  talk'd  of  by  his  friends, 
And  cannot  speak,  nor  move,  nor  make  one  sign, 
But  lies  and  dreads   his  doom.     She   turn'd;  she 

paused ; 

She  stoop'd;  and  out  of  languor  leapt  a  cry; 
Leapt  fiery  Passion  from  the  brinks  of  death  •, 
And  I  believed  that  in  the  living  world 
My  spirit  closed  with  Ida's  at  the  lips ; 
Till  back  I  fell,  and  from  mine  arms  she  rose 
Glowing  all  over  noble  shame ;  and  all 
Her  falser  self  slipt  from  her  like  a  robe, 
And  left  her  woman,  lovelier  in  her  mood 
Than  in  her  mould  that  other,  when  she  came 
From  barren  deeps  to  conquer  all  with  love : 
And  clown  the  streaming  crystal  dropt;  and  she 
Far-fleeted  by  the  purple  island-sides, 
Naked,  a  double  light  in  air  and  wave, 
To  meet  her  Graces,  where  they  deck'd  her  out 
For  worship  without  end ;  nor  end  of  mine, 
Stateliest,  for  thee !  but  mute  she  glided  forth, 


THE  PRINCESS  :    A  MEDLEY. 


100 


Nor  glanced  behind  her,  and  I  sank  and  slept, 
Fill'd  thro'  aud  thro1  with  Love,  a  happy  sleep. 

Deep  in  the  night  I  woke :  she,  near  me,  held 
A  volume  of  the  Poets  of  her  land : 
There  to  herself,  all  in  low  tones,  she  read. 

'   "Now  sleeps  the  crimson  petal,  now  the  white; 
Nor  waves  the  cypress  iii  the  palace  walk; 
Nor  winks  the  gold  fin  in  the  porphyry  font: 
The  firefly  wakens:  waken  thou  with  me. 

"  Now  droops  the  milkwhite  peacock  like  a  ghost, 
And  like  a  ghost  she  glimmers  on  to  me. 

"Now  lies  the  Earth  all  Danau  to  the  stars, 
And  all  thy  heart  lies  open  unto  me. 

"  Now  slides  the  silent  meteor  on,  and  leaves 
A  shining  furrow,  as  thy  thoughts  iu  me. 

"Now  fo!4s  the  lily  all  her  sweetness  up, 
And  slips  into  the  bosom  of  the  lake : 
So  fold  thyself,  my  dearest,  thon,  and  slip 
Into  my  bosom  and  be  lost  in  me." 

I  heard  her  turn  the  page ;  she  found  a  small 
Sweet  Idyl,  and  once  more,  as  low,  she  read  : 

"  Come    down,  O    maid,  from   yonder   mountain 

height : 

What  pleasure  lives  in  height  (the  shepherd  sang). 
In  height  and  cold,  the  splendor  of  the  hills? 
But  cease  to  move  so  near  the  Heavens,  and  cease 
To  glide  a  sunbeam  by  the  blasted  Piue, 
To  sit  a  star  upon  the  sparkling  spire ; 
And  come,  for  Love  is  of  the  valley,  come, 
For  Love  is  of  the  valley,  come  thou  down 
And  find  him ;  by  the  happy  threshold,  he, 
Or  hand  in  hand  with  Plenty  in  the  maize, 
Or  red  with  spirted  purple  of  the  vats, 
Or  foxlike  in  the  vine ;  nor  cares  to  walk 
With  Death  and  Morning  on  the  Silver  Horns, 
Nor  wilt  thou  snare  him  in  the  white  ravine, 
Nor  find  him  dropt  upon  the  firths  of  ice, 
That  huddling  slant  in  furrow-cloven  falls 
To  roll  the  torrent  out  of  dusky  doors : 
But  follow ;  let  the  torrent  dance  thee  down 
To  find  him  in  the  valley;  let  the  wild 
Lean-headed  Eagles  yelp  alone,  and  leave 
The  monstrous  ledges  there  to  slope,  and  spill 
Their  thousand  wreaths  of  dangling  water-smoke, 
That  like  a  broken  purpose  waste  in  air : 
So  waste  not  thou ;  but  come ;  for  all  the  vales 
Await  thee ;  azure  pillars  of  the  hearth 
Arise  to  thee ;  the  children  call,  and  I 
Thy  shepherd  pipe,  and  sweet  is  every  sound, 
Sweeter  thy  voice, -but  every  sound  is  sweet; 
Myriads  of  rivulets  hurrying  thro'  the  lawn, 
The  moan  of  doves  in  immemorial  elms, 
And  murmuring  of  innumerable  bees." 

So  she  low-toned ;  while  with  shut  eyes  I  lay 
Listening ;  then  look'd.    Pale  was  the  perfect  face  ; 
The  bosom  with  long  sighs  labor'd;  and  meek 
Scem'd  the  full  lips,  and  mild  the  luminous  eyes, 
And  the  voice  trembled  and  the  hand.    She  said 
Brokenly,  that  she  knew  it,  she  had  fail'd 
In  sweet  humility ;  had  fail'd  in  all ; 
That  all  her  labor  was  but  as  a  block 
Left  in  the  quarry;  but  she  still  were  loath, 
She  still  were  loath  to  yield  herself  to  one, 
That  wholly  ecorn'd  to  help  their  equal  rights 
Against  the  sons  of  men,  and  barbarous  laws. 
She  pray'd  me  not  to  judge  their  cause  from  her 
That   wrong'd   it,  sought   far   less   for  truth   than 

power 
In  knowledge:  something  wild  within  her  breast. 


A  greater  than  all  knowledge,  beat  her  down. 
And  she  had  unrs'd  me  there  from  week  to  week: 
Much  had  she  learnt  in  little  time.    In  part 
It  was  ill  counsel  had  misled  the  girl 
To  vex  true  hearts :  yet  was  she  but  a  girl— 
Ah  fool,  aud  made  myself  a  Queen  of  faro  1 
When  comes  another  such?  never,  I  think 
Till  the  Sun  drop  dead  from  the  signs." 

Her  voice 

Choked,  and  her  forehead  sank  upon  her  hands, 
And  her  great  heart  through  all  the  faultful  Past 
Went  sorrowing  in  a  pause  I  dared  not  break  ; 
Till  notice  of  a  change  in  the  dark  world 
Was  lisp'd  about  the  acacias,  and  a  bird, 
That  early  woke  to  feed  her  little  ones, 
Sent  from  a  dewy  breast  a  cry  for  light  i 
She  moved,  and  at  her  feet  the  volume  fell. 

'Blame  not  thyself  too  much,"  I  said,  "nor  blame 
Too  much  the  sons  of  men  and  barbarous  laws  ; 
These  were  the  rough  ways  of  the  world  till  now. 
Henceforth  thou  hast  a  helper,  me,  that  know 
The  woman's  cause  is  man's:  they  rise  or  sink 
Together,  dwarf 'd  or  godlike,  bond  or  free : 
For  she  that  out  of  Lethe  scales  with  man 
The  shining  steps  of  Nature,  shares  with  man 
His  nights,  his  days,  moves  with  him  to  one  goal, 
Stays  all  the  fair  young  planet  in  her  hands— 
If  she  be  small,  slight-natnred,  miserable, 
How  shall  men  grow  ?  but  work  no  more  aloue ! 
Our  place  is  much :  as  far  as  in  us  lies 
We  two  will  serve  them  both  in  aiding  her— 
Will  clear  away  the  parasitic  forms 
That  seem  to  keep  her  up  but  drag  her  down — 
Will  leave  her  space  to  burgeon  out  of  all 
Within  her — let  her  make  herself  her  own 
To  give  or  keep,  to  live  and  learn  and  be 
All  that  not  harms  distinctive  womanhood. 
For  woman  is  not  undevelopt  man, 
But  diverse:  could  we  make  her  as  the  man, 
Sweet  love  were  slaiu:  his  dearest  bond  is  this, 
Not  Mke  to  like,  but  like  in  difference. 
Yet  in  the  long  years  liker  must  they  grow ; 
The  man  be  more  of  woman,  she  of  man  ; 
He  gain  in  sweetness  aud  in  moral  height, 
Nor  lose  the  wrestling  thews  that  throw  the  world , 
She  mental  breadth,  nor  fail  in  childward  care, 
Nor  lose  the  childlike  in  the  larger  mind; 
Till  at  the  last  she  set  herself  to  man, 
Like  perfect  music  unto  noble  words  ; 
And  so  these  twain,  upon  the  skirts  of  Time, 
Sit  side  by  side,  full-summ'd  iu  all  their  power?, 
Dispensing  harvest,  sowing  the  To-be, 
Self-reverent  each  and  reverencing  each, 
Distinct  iu  individualities, 
But  like  each  other  ev'n  as  those  who  love. 
Then  comes  the  statelier  Eden  back  to  men : 
Then  reign  the  world's  great  bridals,  chaste   and 

calm: 

Then  springs  the  crowning  race  of  humankind. 
May  these  things  be '." 

Sighing  she  spoke,  "  I  fear 
They  will  not." 

"Dear,  bat  let  us  type  them  now 
In  our  own  lives,  and  this  proud  watchword  rest 
Of  equal ;  seeing  either  sex  alone 
Is  half  itself,  aud  in  true  marriage  lies 
Nor  equal,  nor  unequal :  each  fulfils 
Defect  in  each,  and  always  thought  in  thought, 
Purpose  in  purpose,  will  in  will,  they  grow, 
The  single  pure  and  perfect  animal, 
The  two-cell'd  heart  beating,  with  cue  full  stroke, 
Life." 

And  again  sighing  she  spoke:  "A  dream 
That  once  was  mine  !  what  woman  taught  you  this  ?" 

"Alone,"  I  said,  "from  earlier  than  I  know, 
Immersed  in  rich  foreshadowings  of  the  world, 


THE  PRINCESS :  A  MEDLEY. 


I.  loved  the  woman :  he,  that  doth  not,  lives 

A.  drowning  life,  besotted  in  sweet  self, 

Or  pines  in  sad  experience  worse  than  death, 

Or  keeps  his  wing'd  affections  dipt  with  crime: 

Yet  was  there  one  thro'  whom  I  loved  her,  one 

Not  learned,  save  in  gracious  household  ways, 

Not  perfect,  nay,  bnt  full  of  tender  wants. 

No  Angel,  bnt  a  dearer  being,  all  dipt 

In  Angel  instincts,  breathing  Paradise, 

Interpreter  between  the  Gods  and  men, 

V.'ho  look'd  all  native  to  her  place,  and  yet 

On  tiptoe  seem'd  to  touch  upon  a  sphere 

Too  gross  to  tread,  and  all  male  minds  perforce 

Sway'd  to  her  from  their  orbits  as  they  moved, 

And  girded  her  with  music.    Happy  he 

With  such  a  mother  1  faith  in  womankind 

Beats  with  his  blood,  and  trust  in  all  things  high 

Comes  easy  to  him,  and  tho'  he  trip  and  fall 

He  shall  not  blind  his  soul  with  clay." 

"  But  I," 

Said  Ida,  tremulously,  "  so  all  unlike — 
It  seems  you  love  to  cheat  yourself  with  words  : 
This  mother  is  your  model.    I  have  heard 
Of  your  strange  doubts :    they  well   might  be :  I 

seem 

A  mockery  to  my  own  self.    Never,  Prince  ; 
You  cannot  love  me." 

"Nay  but  thee,"  I  said, 
"From  yearlong  poring  on  thy  pictured  eyes, 
Ere  seen  I  loved,  and  loved  thee  seen,  and  saw 
Thee  woman  thro'  the  crust  of  iron  moods 
That  mask'd  thee  from   men's   reverence   up,  and 

forced  ' 

Sweet  iove  on  pranks  of  saucy  boyhood:  now, 
Giv'n  back  to  life,  to  life  indeed,  thro'  thee, 
Indeed  I  love :  the  new  day  comes,  the  light 
Dearer  for  night,  as  dearer  thou  for  faults 
Lived  over :  lift  thine  eyes ;  my  doubts  are  dead, 
My  haunting  sense  of  hollow  shows :  the  change, 
This  truthful  change  in  thee  has  kili'd  it.    Dear, 
Look  up,  and  let  thy  nature  strike  on  mine, 
Like  yonder  morning  on  the  blind  half-world  • 
Approach  and  fear  not ;  breathe  upon  my  brows ; 
In  that  fine  air  I  tremble,  all  the  past 
Melts  mist-like  into  this  bright  hour,  and  this 
Is  morn  to  more,  and  all  the  rich  to-come 
Reels,  as  the  golden  Autumn  woodland  reels 
Athwart  the  smoke  of  burning  weeds.    Forgive  me, 
I  waste  my  heart  in  signs :  let  be.    My  bride, 
My  wife,  my  life.    O  we  will  walk  this  world, 
Yoked  in  all  exercise  of  noble  end. 
And  so  thro'  those  dark  gates  across  the  wild 
That  no  man  knows.    Indeed  I  love  thee :  come, 
Yield  thyself  up-  my  hopes  and  thine  are  one: 
Accomplish  thou  my  manhood  and  thyself; 
Lay  thy  sweet  hands  in  mine  and  trust  to  me." 


CONCLUSION. 

So  closed  our  tale,  of  which  I  give  yon  all 

The  random  scheme  as  wildly  as  it  rose: 

The  words  are  mostly  mine ;  for  when  we  ceased 

There  came  a  minute's  pause,  and  Walter  said, 

"  I  wish  she  had  not  yielded  !"  then  fo  me, 

"  What,  if  you  drest  it  up  poetically !" 

So  pray'd  the  men,  the  women :  I  gave  assent  : 

Yet  how  to  bind  the  scatter'd  scheme  of  seven 

Together  in  one  sheaf?    What  style  could  suit? 

The  men  required  that  I  should  give  throughout 

The  sort  of  mock-heroic  gigantesqne, 

With  which  we  banter'd  little  Lilia  first  : 

The  women— and  perhaps  they  felt  their  power. 

For  something  in  the  ballads  which  they  sang, 

Or  in  their  silent  influence  as  they  sat, 

Had  ever  seem'd  to  wrestle  with  burlesque, 

And  drove  us,  last,  to  quite  a  solemn  close— 

TXey  hated  banter,  wish'd  for  something  real, 


A  gallant  fight,  a  noble  princess — why 

Not  make  her  true-heroic— true-sublime  ? 

Or  all,  they  said,  as  earnest  as  the  close  ? 

Which  yet  with  such  a  framework  scarce  could  be 

Then  rose  a  little  feud  betwixt  the  two, 

Betwixt  the  mockers  and  the  realists ; 

And  I,  betwixt  them  both,  to  please  them  both, 

And  yet  to  give  the  story  as  it  rose, 

I  moved  as  in  a  strange  diagonal, 

And  maybe  neither  pleased  myself  nor  them. 

But  Lilia  pleased  me,  for  she  took  no  part 
In  our  dispute :  the  sequel  of  the  tale 
Had  touch'd  her ;  and  she  sat,  she  pluck'd  the  grass, 
She  flung  it  from  her,  thinking :  last,  she  fixt 
A  showery  glance  upon  her  aunt,  and  said, 
"You— tell  us  what  we  are"  who  might  have  told, 
For  she  was  cramm'd  with  theories  out  of  books, 
But  that  there  rose  a  shout:  the  gates  were  closed 
At  sunset,  and  the  crowd  were  swarming  now, 
To  take  their  leave,  about  the  garden  rails. 

So  I  and  some  went  out  to  these:  we  climb'd 
The  slope  to  Vivian-place,  and  turning  saw 
The  happy  valleys,  half  in  light,  and  half 
Far-shadowing  from  the  west,  a  land  of  peace ; 
Gray  halls  alone  among  the  massive  groves; 
Trim  hamlets ;  here  and  there  a  rustic  tower 
Half-lost  in  belts  of  hop  and  breadths  of  wheat ; 
The  shimmering  glimpses  of  a  stream ;  the  seas  ; 
A  red  sail,  or  a  white ;  and  far  beyond, 
Imagined  more  than  seen,  the  skirts  of  France. 

"  Look  there,  a  garden !"  said  my  college  friend, 
The  Tory  member's  elder  son,  "  and  there  ! 
God  bless  the  narrow  sea  which  keeps  her  off, 
And  keeps  our  Britain,  whole  within  herself, 
A  nation  yet,  the  rulers  and  the  ruled— 
Some  sense  of  duty,  something  of  a  faith, 
Some  reverence  for  the  laws  ourselves  have  made 
Some  patient  force  to  change  them  when  we  will, 
Some  civic  manhood  firm  against  the  crowd- 
But  yonder,  whiff!  there  conies  a  sudden  heat, 
The  gravest  citizen  seems  to  lose  his  head, 
The  king  is  scared,  the  soldier  will  not  fight, 
The  little  boys  begin  to  shoot  and  stab, 
A  kingdom  topples  over  with  a  shriek 
Like  an  old  woman,  and  down  rolls  the  world 
In  mock  heroics  stranger  than  our  own; 
Revolts,  republics,  revolutions,  most 
No  graver  than  a  school-boys'  barring  out, 
Too  comic  for  the  solemn  things  they  are, 
Too  solemn  for  the  comic  touches  in  them, 
Like  our  wild  Princess  with  as  wise  a  dream 
As  some  of  theirs — God  bless  the  narrow  seas  ! 
I  wish  they  were  a  whole  Atlantic  broad." 

"  Have  patience,"  I  replied,  "  ourselves  are  full 
Of  social  wrong ;  and  maybe  wildest  dreams 
Are  but  the  needful  preludes  of  the  truth  : 
For  me,  the  genial  day,  the  happy  crowd, 
The  sport  half-science,  fill  me  with  a  faith. 
This  fine  old  world  of  ours  is  but  a  child 
Yet  in  the  go-cart.    Patience !    Give  it  time 
To  learn  its  limbs :  there  is  a  hand  that  guides." 

In  snch  discourse  we  gain'd  the  garden  rails, 
And  there  we  saw  Sir  Walter  where  he  stood, 
Before  a  tower  of  crimson  holly-oaks, 
Among  six  boys,  head  under  head,  and  look'd 
No  little  lily-handed  Baronet  he, 
A  great  broad-shoulder'd  genial  Englishman, 
A  lord  of  fat  prize-oxen  and  of  sheep, 
A  raiser  of  huge  melons  and  of  pine, 
A  patron  of  some  thirty  charities, 
A  pamphleteer  on  guano  and  on  grain, 
A  quarter-sessions  chairman,  abler  none : 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


103 


Fair-hair'd  arid  redder  than  a  windy  morn; 
Now  shaking  hands  with  him,  now  him,  of  those 
That  stood  the  nearest— now  address'd  to  speech — 
Who  spoke  few  words  and  pithy,  such  as  closed 
Welcome,  farewell,  and  welcome  for  the  year 
To  follow :  a  shout  rose  again,  and  made 
The  long  line  of  the  approaching  rookery  swerve 
From  the  elms,  and  shook  the  branches  of  the  deer 
From  slope  to  slope  thro'  distant  ferns,  and  rang 
Beyond  the  bourn  of  sunset ;  O,  a  shout 
More  joyful  than  the  city-roar  that  hails 
Premier  or  king !    Why  should  not  these  great  Sirs 
Give  up  their  parks  some  dozen  times  a  year 
To  let  the  people  breathe  ?    So  thrice  they  cried, 
I  likewise,  and  in  groups  they  stream'd  away. 


But  we  went  back  to  the  Abbey,  and  sat  on, 
So  much  the  gathering  darkness  charm'd :  we  sat 
But  spoke  not,  rapt  in  nameless  reverie, 
Perchance  upon  the  future  man :  the  walls 
Blacken'd  about  us,  bats  wheel'd,  and  owls,  whoop 'a, 
And  gradually  the  powers  of  the  night, 
That  range  above  the  region  of  the  wind, 
Deepening  the  courts  of  twiiight  broke  them  up 
Thro'  all  the  silent  spaces  of  the  worlds, 
Beyond  all  thought  into  the  Heaven  of  Heavens. 

Last  little  Lilia,  rising  quietly, 
Disrobed  the  glimmering  statue  of  Sir  Ralph 
From  those  rich  silks,  and  home  well-pleased  w( 
went. 


IN    MEMORIAM. 


STRONG  Son  of  God,  immortal  Love, 
Whom  we,  that  have  not  seen  thy  face, 
By  faith,  and  faith  alone,  embrace, 

Believing  where  we  cannot  prove  ; 

Thine  are  these  orbs  of  light  and  shade ; 

Thou  madest  life  in  man  and  brute; 

Thou  madest  Death ;  and  lo,  thy  foot 
Is  on  the  skull  which  thou  hast  made. 

Thou  wilt  not  leave  us  in  the  dust: 
Thou  madest  man,  he  knows  not  why ; 
lie  thinks  he  was  not  made  to  die  ; 

And  thou  hast  made  him :  thou  art  just. 

Thou  seemest  human  and  divine, 
The  highest,  holiest  manhood,  thou : 
Our  wills  are  ours,  we  know  not  how; 

Our  wills  are  ours,  to  make  them  thine. 

Our  little  systems  have  their  day; 
They  have  their  day  and  cease  to  be: 
They  are  but  broken  lights  of  thee, 

And  thou,  O  Lord,  art  more  than  they. 

We  have  but  faith  :  we  cannot  know ; 

For  knowledge  is  of  things  we  see ; 

And  yet  we  trust  it  comes  from  thee, 
A  beam  in  darkness :  let  it  grow. 

Let  knowledge  grow  from  more  to  more, 
But  more  of  reverence  in  us  dwell ; 
That  mind  and  soul  according  well, 

May  make  one  music  as  before, 

But  vaster.    We  are  fools  and  slight ; 
We  mock  thee  when  we  do  not  fear: 
But  help  thy  foolish  ones  to  bear; 

Help  thy  vain  worlds  to  bear  thy  light. 

Forgive  what  seem'd  my  sin  in  me; 

What  seem'd  my  worth  since  I  began ; 

For  merit  lives  from  man  to  man, 
And  not  from  man,  O  Lord,  to  thee. 

Forgive  my  grief  for  one  removed, 
Thy  creature,  whom  I  found  so  fair. 
I  trust  he  lives  in  thee,  and  there 

I  find  him  worthier  to  be  loved. 

Forgive  these  wild  and  wandering  cries, 
Confusions  of  a  wasted  youth  : 
Forgive  them  where  they  fail  in  truth, 

And  in  thy  wisdom  make  me  wise. 
1S49. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 

A.  H.  H. 

OBIIT   MDCCCXXXIII. 
I. 

I  HELD  it  truth,  with  him  who  sings 
To  one  clear  harp  in  divers  tones, 
That  men  may  rise  on  stepping-stonef» 

Of  their  dead  selves  to  higher  things. 

But  who  shall  so  forecast  the  years, 
And  find  in  loss  a  gain  to  match? 
Or  reach  a  hand  thro'  time  to  catch 

The  far-off  interest  of  tears  ? 

Let  Love  clasp  Grief  lest  both  be  drown  'as 
Let  darkness  keep  her  raven  gloss: 
Ah,  sweeter  to  be  drunk  with  loss, 

To  dance  with  death,  to  beat  the  ground, 

Than  that  the  victor  Hours  should  scorn 
The  long  result  of  love,  and  boast, 
"Behold  the  man  that  loved  and  lost 

But  all  he  was  is  overworn." 


OLD  Yew,  which  graspest  at  the  stones 
That  name  the  underlying  dead, 
Thy  fibres  net  the  dreamless  head, 

Thy  roots  are  wrapt  about  the  bones. 

The  seasons  bring  the  flower  again, 
And  bring  the  firstling  to  the  flock; 
And  in  the  dusk  of  thee,  the  clock 

Beats  out  the  little  lives  of  men. 

O  not  for  thee  the  glow,  the  bloom, 
Who  chaugest  not  in  any  gale, 
Nor  branding  summer  suns  avail 

To  touch  thy  thousand  years  of  gloom  i 

And  gazing  on  thee,  sullen  tree, 
Sick  for  thy  stubborn  hardihood, 
I  seem  to  fail  from  out  my  blood 

And  grow  incorporate  into  thee. 

III. 

O  SORROW,  cruel  fellowship, 
O  Priestess  in  the  vaults  of  Death, 
O  sweet  and  bitter  in  a  breath, 

What  whispers  from  thy  lying  lip  I 


106 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


"The  stars,"  she  whispers,  "blindly  run; 

A  web  is  wov'n  across  the  sky; 

From  out  waste  places  comes  a  cry, 
And  murmurs  from  the  dying  sun: 

"  And  all  the  phantom,  Nature,  stands,— 
With  all  the  music  in  her  tone, 
A  hollow  echo  of  my  own, — 

A  hollow  form  with  empty  hands." 

And  shall  I  take  a  thing  so  blind, 
Embrace  her  as  my  natural  good ; 
Or  crush  her,  like  a  vice  of  blood, 

Upon  the  threshold  of  the  mind  ? 

IV. 

To  Sleep  I  give  my  powers  away ; 

My  will  is  bondsman  to  the  dark; 

I  sit  within  a  helinless  bark, 
And  with  my  heart  I  muse  and  say : 

0  heart,  how  fares  it  with  thee  now, 
That  thou  shouldst  fail  from  thy  desire, 
Who  scarcely  darest  to  inquire 

"What  is  it  makes  me  beat  so  low?" 

Something  it  is  which  thou  hast  lost, 
Some  pleasure  from  thine  early  years. 
Break,  thon  deep  vase  of  chilling  tears, 

That  grief  hath  shaken  into  frost ! 

Such  clouds  of  nameless  trouble  cross 
All  night  below  the  darken'd  eyes ; 
With  morning  wakes  the  will,  and  cries, 

"Thou  shall  not  be  the  fool  of  loss." 

V. 

1  SOMETIMES  hold  it  half  a  sin 

To  put  in  words  the  grief  I  feel ; 
For  words,  like  Nature,  half  reveal 
And  half  conceal  the  Soul  within. 

But,  for  the  unquiet  heart  and  brain, 
A  use  in  measured  language  lies; 
The  sad  mechanic  exercise, 

Like  dull  narcotics,  numbing  pain. 

In  words,  like  weeds,  I'll  wrap  me  o'er, 
Like  coarsest  clothes  against  the  cold ; 
But  that  large  grief  which  these  enfold 

Is  given  in  outline  and  no  more. 

VI.       • 

ONE  writes,  that  "Other  friends  remain," 
That  "Loss  is  common  to  the  race," — 
And  common  is  the  commonplace, 

And  vacant  chaff  well  meant  for  grain. 

That  loss  is  common  would  not  make 
My  own  less  bitter,  rather  more : 
Too  common !    Never  morning  wore 

To  evening,  but  some  heart  did  break. 

O  father,  wheresoe'er  thou  be, 
Who  pledgest  now  thy  gallant  son  ; 
A  shot,  ere  half  thy  draught  be  done, 

Hath  Btill'd  the  life  that  beat  from  thee. 

O  mother,  praying  God  will  save 
Thy  sailor,— while  thy  head  is  bow'd, 
His  heavy-shotted  hammock-shroud 

Drops  in  his  vast  and  wandering  grave. 

Ye  know  no  more  than  I  who  wrought 
At  that  last  hour  to  please  him  well ; 
Who,  mused  on  all  I  had  to  tell, 

And  something  written,  something  thought! 


Expecting  still  his  advent  home: 
And  ever  met  him  on  his  way 
With  wishes,  thinking,  here  to-day, 

Or  here  to-morrow  will  he  come. 

O  somewhere,  meek  unconscious  dove, 
That  sittest  ranging  golden  hair ; 
And  giad  to  find  thyself  so  fair, 

Poor  child,  that  waitest  for  thy  love  I 

For  now  her  father's  chimney  glows 

In  expectation  of  a  guest ; 

And  thinking  "This  will  please  him  best,'1 
She  takes  a  riband  or  a  rose; 

For  he  will  see  them  on  to-night ; 

And  with  the  thought  her  color  burns ; 

And,  having  left  the  glass,  she  turns 
Once  more  to  set  a  ringlet  right; 

And,  ev'n  when  she  turn'd,  the  curse 
Had  fallen,  and  her  future  lord 
Was  drown' d  in  passing  thro'  the  ford, 

Or  kill'd  in  falling  from  his  horse. 

O  what  to  her  shall  be  the  cud  ? 

And  what  to  me  remains  of  good  ? 

To  her,  perpetual  maidenhood, 
And  unto  me  no  second  friend. 

VII. 

DARK  house,  by  which  once  more  I  stand 
Here  in  the  long  unlovely  street, 
Doors,  where  my  heart  was  used  to  beat 

So  quickly,  waiting  for  a  hand, 

A  hand  that  can  be  clasp'd  no  more, — 

Behold  me,  for  I  cannot  sleep, 

And  like  a  guilty  thing  I  creep 
At  earliest  morning  to  the  door. 

He  is  not  here ;  but  far  away 
The  noise  of  life  begins  again, 
And  ghastly  thro'  the  drizzling  rain 

On  the  bald  street  breaks  the  blank  day. 

VIII. 

A  HAPPY  lover  who  has  come 
To  look  on  her  that  loves  him  well, 
Who  'lights  and  rings  the  gateway  bell. 

And  learns  her  gone  and  far  from  home; 

He  saddens,  all  the  magic  light 
Dies  off  at  once  from  bower  and  hall, 
And  all  the  place  is  dark,  and  all 

The  chambers  emptied  of  delight  : 

So  find  I  every  pleasant  spot 
In  which  we  two  were  wont  to  meet, 
The  field,  the  chamber,  and  the  street, 

For  all  is  dark  where  thou  art  not. 

Yet  as  that  other,  wandering  there 
In  those  deserted  walks,  may  find 
A  flower  beat  with  rain  and  wind, 

Which  once  she  foster'd  up  with  care; 

So  seems  it  in  my  deep  regret, 

0  my  forsaken  heart,  with  thee 
And  this  poor  flower  of  poesy 

Which  little  cared  for  fades  not  yet. 

But  since  it  pleased  a  vanish'd  eye, 

1  go  to  plant  it  on  his  tomb, 
That  if  it  can  it  there  may  bloom, 

Or  dying,  there  at  least  may  die. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


107 


FAIB  ship,  that  from  the  Italian  shore 
Sailest  the  placid  ocean-plains 
With  my  lost  Arthur's  loved  remains, 

Spread  thy  full  wings,  and  waft  him  o'er. 

So  draw  him  home  to  those  that  mourn 
Iii  vain ;  a  favorable  speed 
Ruffle  thy  mirror'd  mast,  and  lead 

Thro'  prosperous  floods  his  holy  urn. 

All  night  no  ruder  air  perplex 
Thy  sliding  keel,  till  Phosphor,  bright 
As  our  pure  love,  thro'  early  light 

Shall  glimmer  on  the  dewy  decks. 

Sphere  all  your  lights  around,  above ; 

Sleep,  gentle  heavens,  before  the  prow ; 

Sleep,  gentle  winds,  as  he  sleeps  now, 
My  friend,  the  brother  of  my  love ; 

My  Arthur,  whom  I  shall  not  see 
Till  all  my  widow'd  race  be  run ; 
Dear  as  the  mother  to  the  son, 

More  than  my  brothers  are  to  me. 

X. 

I  HEAR  the  noise  about  thy  keel; 

I  hear  the  hell  struck  in  the  night; 

I  see  the  cabin-window  bright; 
I  see  the  sailor  at  the  wheel. 

Thou  bringest  the  sailor  to  his  wife, 
Aud  travell'd  men  from  foreign  lands; 
And  letters  unto  trembling  hands ; 

And,  thy  dark  freight,  a  vanish'd  life. 

Se  bring  him:  we  have  idle  dreams: 
This  look  of  quiet  flatters  thus 
Our  home-bred  fancies :  O  to  us, 

The  fools  of  habit,  sweeter  seems 

To  rest  beneath  the  clover  sod, 
That  takes  the  sunshine  and  the  rains, 
Or  where  the  kneeling  hamlet  drains 

The  chalice  of  the  grapes  of  God ; 

Than  if  with  thee  the  roaring  wells 
Should  gulf  him  fathom-deep  in  brine ; 
And  hands  so  often  clasp' d  in  mine 

Should  toss  with  tangle  and  with  shells. 

XI. 
CALM  is  the  morn  without  a  sound, 

Calm  as  to  suit  a  calmer  grief, 

And  only  thro'  the  faded  leaf 
The  chestnut  pattering  to  the  ground : 

Calm  and  deep  peace  on  this  high  wold 
And  on  these  dews  that  drench  the  furze, 
And  all  the  silvery  gossamers 

That  twinkle  into  green  and  gold: 

Calm  and  still  light  on  yon  great  plain 
That  sweeps  with  all  its  autumn  bowers, 
And  crowded  farms  and  lessening  towers, 

To  mingle  with  the  bounding  main : 

Calm  and  deep  peace  in  this  wide  air, 
These  leaves  that  redden  to  the  fall ; 
And  in  my  heart,  if  calm  at  all, 

If  any  calm,  a  calm  despair : 

Calm  on  the  seas,  and  silver  sleep, 
And  waves  that  sway  themselves  in  rest, 
And  dead  calm  in  that  noble  breast 

Which  heaves  but  with  the  heaving  deep. 


XIL 

Lo,  as  a  dove  when  up  she  springs 
To  bear  thro'  Heaven  a  tale  of  wee, 
Some  dolorous  message  knit  below 

The  wild  pulsation  of  her  wings ; 

Like  her  I  go ;  I  cannot  stay ; 
I  leave  this  mortal  ark  behind, 
A  weight  of  nerves  withont  a  mind, 

And  leave  the  cliffs,  and  haste  away 

O'er  ocean-mirrors  rounded  large, 
And  reach  the  glow  of  southern  skies, 
And  see  the  sails  at  distance  rise, 

And  linger  weeping  on  the  marge, 

And  saying,  "Comes  he  thus,  my  friend? 

Is  this  the  end  of  all  my  care?" 

And  circle  moaning  in  the  air: 
"Is  this  the  end?    Is  this  the  end?" 

And  forward  dart  again,  and  play 
About  the  prow,  and  back  return 
To  where  the  body  sits,  and  learn, 

That  I  have  been  an  hour  away. 

XIII. 

TEARS  of  the  widower,  when  he  sees 
A  late-lost  form  that  sleep  reveals, 
And  moves  his  doubtful  arms,  and  feers 

Her  place  is  empty,  fall  like  these ; 

Which  weep  a  loss  forever  new, 
A  void  where  heart  on  heart  reposed ; 
And,  where  warm  hands  have  prest  and  clos'd. 

Silence,  till  I  be  silent  too. 

Which  weep  the  comrade  of  my  choice, 
An  awful  thought,  a  life  removed, 
The  human-hearted  man  I  loved, 

A  Spirit,  not  a  breathing  voice. 

Come  Time,  and  teach  me,  many  years, 

I  do  not  suffer  in  a  dream ; 

For  now  so  strange  do  these  things  seem, 
Mine  eyes  have  leisure  for  their  tears; 

My  fancies  time  to  rise  on  wing, 
And  glance  about  the  approaching  sails, 
As  tho'  they  brought  but  merchants'  bales, 

And  not  the  burthen  that  they  bring. 

XIV. 

IF  one  should  bring  me  this  report, 
That  thou  hadst  touch'd  the  land  to-day, 
And  I  went  down  unto  the  quay, 

And  found  thee  lying  in  the  port; 

And  standing,  muffled  round  with  woe, 
Should  see  thy  passengers  in  rank 
Come  stepping  lightly  down  the  plank, 

And  beckoning  unto  those  they  know ; 

And  if  along  with  these  should  come 

The  man  I  held  as  half-divine ; 

Should  strike  a  sudden  hand  in  mine, 
And  ask  a  thousand  things  of  home  ; 

And  I  should  tell  him  all  my  pain, 
And  how  my  life  had  droop'd  of  late. 
And  he  should  sorrow  o'er  my  state 

And  marvel  what  possess'd  my  brain' 

And  I  perceived  no  touch  of  change, 
No  hint  of  death  in  all  his  frame, 
But  found  him  all  in  all  the  same, 

I  should  not  feel  it  to  be  strange. 


108 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


XV. 

TO-NIGHT  the  winds  begin  to  rise 
And  roar  from  yonder  dropping  day : 
The  fast  red  leaf  is  whirl'd  away, 

The  rooks  are  blown  about  the  skies ; 

The  forest  crack'd,  the  waters  curl'd, 

The  cattle  huddled  on  the  lea; 

And  wildly  dash'd  on  tower  and  trc« 
The  sunbeam  strikes  along  the  world: 

And  but  for  fancies,  which  aver 
That  all  thy  motions  gently  pass 
Athwart  a  plane  of  molten  glass, 

I  scarce  could  brook  the  strain  and  stir 

That  makes  the  barren  branches  loud ; 
And  but  for  fear  it  is  not  so, 
The  wild  unrest  that  lives  in  woe 

Would  dote  and  pore  on  yonder  cloud 

That  rises  upward  always  higher, 
And  onward  drags  a  laboring  breast, 
And  topples  round  the  dreary  west, 

A  looming  bastion  fringed  with  fire. 

XVI. 

WHAT  words  are  these  have  fall'n  from  me  ? 

Can  calm  despair  and  wild  unrest 

Be  tenants  of  a  single  breast, 
Or  sorrow  such  a  changeling  be? 

Or  doth  she  only  seem  to  take 
The  touch  of  change  in  calm  or  storm ; 
But  knows  110  more  of  transient  form 

In  her  deep  self,  than  some  dead  lake 

That  holds  the  shadow  of  a  lark 
Hung  in  the  shadow  of  a  heaven  ? 
Or  has  the  shock,  so  harshly  given, 

Confused  me  like  the  unhappy  bark 

That  strikes  by  night  a  craggy  shelf, 
And  staggers  blindly  ere  she  sink? 
And  stunn'd  me  from  my  power  to  think 

And  all  my  knowledge  of  myself; 

And  made  me  that  delirious  man 
Whose  fancy  fuses  old  and  new, 
And  flashes  into  false  and  trtie, 

And  mingles  all  without  a  plan? 

XVII. 

Tuou  comest,  much  wept  for :  such  a  breeze 
Compell'd  thy  canras,  and  my  prayer 
Was  as  the  whisper  of  an  air 

To  breathe  thee  over  lonely  seas. 

For  I  in  spirit  saw  thee  move 
Thro'  circles  of  the  bounding  sky, 
Week  after  week:  the  days  go  by: 

Come  quick,  thou  briugest  all  I  love. 

Henceforth,  wherever  thou  may'st  roam, 
My  blessing,  like  a  line  of  light, 
Is  on  the  waters  day  and  night, 

And  like  a  beacon  guards  thee  home. 

So  may  whatever  tempest  mars 
Mid-ocean  spare  thee,  sacred  bark ; 
And  balmy  drops  in  summer  dark 

Slide  from  the  bosom  of  the  stars. 

So  kind  an  office  hath  been  done, 
Such  precious  relics  brought  by  thee ; 
The  dust  of  him  I  shall  not  see 

Till  all  my  widow'd  race  be  run. 


XVIII. 

T  is  well ;  't  is  something ;  we  may  stand 
Where  he  in  English  earth  is  laid, 
And  from  his  ashes  may  be  made 

The  violet  of  his  native  laud. 

'T  is  little ;  but  it  looks  in  truth 
As  if  the  quiet  bones  were  blest 
Among  familiar  names  to  rest 

And  in  the  places  of  his  youth. 

Come  then,  pure  hands,  and  bear  the  head 
That  sleeps  or  wears  the  mask  of  sleep, 
And  come,  whatever  loves  to  weep, 

And  hear  the  ritual  of  the  dead. 

Ah  yet,  ev'n  yet,  if  this  might  be, 
I,  falling  on  his  faithful  heart, 
Would  breathing  through  his  lips  impart 

The  life  that  almost  dies  in  me; 

That  dies  not,  but  endures  with  pain, 
And  slowly  forms  the  firmer  mind, 
Treasuring  the  look  it  cannot  find, 

The  words  that  are  not  heard  again. 

XIX. 

THE  Danube  to  the  Severn  gave 
The  darken'd  heart  that  beat  no  more : 
They  laid  him  by  the  pleasant  shore, 

And  in  the  hearing  of  the  wave. 

There  twice  a  day  the  Severn  fills ; 
The  salt  sea-water  passes  by, 
And  hushes  half  the  babbling  Wye, 

And  makes  a  silence  in  the  hills. 

The  Wye  is  hush'd  nor  moved  along, 
And  hush'd  my  deepest  grief  of  all, 
When  fill'd  with  tears  that  cannot  fall, 

I  brim  with  sorrow  drowning  song. 

The  tide  flows  down,  the  wave  again 

Is  vocal  in  its  wooded  walls; 

My  deeper  anguish  also  falls, 
And  I  can  speak  a  little  then. 

XX. 

THE  lesser  griefs  that  may  be  said, 
That  breathe  a  thousand  tender  vows, 
Are  but  as  servants  in  a  house 

Where  lies  the  master  newly  dead ; 

Who  speak  their  feeling  as  it  is, 
And  weep  the  fulness  from  the  mind : 
"It  will  be  hard,"  they  say,  "to  find 

Another  service  such  as  this." 

My  lighter  moods  are  like  to  these, 
That  out  of  words  a  comfort  win ;  . 
But  there  are  other  griefs  within, 

And  tears  that  at  their  fountain  freeze : 

For  by  the  hearth  the  children  sit 
Cold  in  that  atmosphere  of  Death, 
And  scarce  endure  to  draw  the  breath, 

Or  like  to  noiseless  phantoms  flit: 

But  open  converse  is  there  none, 
So  much  the  vital  spirits  sink 
To  see  the  vacant  chair,  and  think, 

"  How  good  !  how  kind !  and  he  is  gone." 

XXI. 

I  SING  to  him  that  rests  below, 
And,  since  the  grasses  round  me  wave, 
I  take  the  grasses  of  the  grave, 

And  make  them  pipes  whereon  to  blow. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


109 


The  traveller  hears  me  now  and  then, 
And  sometimes  harshly  will  he  speak: 
"This  fellow  would  make  weakness  weak, 

And  melt  the  waxen  hearts  of  men." 

Another  answers,  "Let  him  be, 
He  loves  to  make  parade  of  pain, 
That  with  his  piping  he  may  gain 

The  praise  that  comes  to  constancy." 

A  third  is  wroth,  "Is  this  an  hour 
For  private  sorrow's  barren  song, 
When  more  and  more  the  people  throng 

The  chairs  and  thrones  of  civil  power  ? 

"A  time  to  sicken  and  to  swoon, 
When  Science  reaches  forth  her  arms 
To  feel  from  world  to  world,  and  charms 

Her  secret  from  the  latest  moon  ?" 

Behold,  ye  speak  an  idle  thing: 

Te  never  knew  the  sacred  dust: 

I  do  but  sing  because  I  must, 
And  pipe  but  as  the  linnets  sing : 

And  one  is  glad ;  her  note  is  gay, 
For  now  her  little  ones  have  ranged; 
And  one  is  sad;  her  note  is  changed, 

Because  her  brood  is  stol'n  away. 

XXII. 

THE  path  by  which  we  twain  did  go, 
WTiich  led  by  tracts  that  pleased  us  well, 
Thro'  four  sweet  years  arose  and  fell, 

From  flower  to  flower,  from  snow  to  snow : 

And  we  with  singing  cheer'd  the  way, 
And  crown'd  with  all  the  season  lent, 
From  April  on  to  April  went, 

And  glad  at  heart  from  May  to  May: 

But  where  the  path  we  walk'd  began 

To  slant  the  fifth  autumnal  slope, 

As  we  descended,  following  Hope, 
There  sat  the  Shadow  fear'd  of  man ; 

Who  broke  our  fair  companionship, 
And  spread  his  mantle  dark  and  cold, 
And  wrapt  thee  formless  in  the  fold, 

And  dull'd  the  murmur  on  thy  lip, 

And  bore  thee  where  I  could  not  see 
Nor  follow,  tho'  I  walk  in  haste, 
And  think  that  somewhere  in  the  waste 

The  Shadow  sits  and  waits  for  me. 

XXIII. 

Now,  sometimes  in  my  sorrow  shut, 

Or  breaking  into  song  by  fits, 

Alone,  alone,  to  where  he  sits, 
The  Shadow  cloak'd  from  head  to  foot, 

Who  keeps  the  keys  of  all  the  creeds, 
I  wander,  often  falling  lame, 
And  looking  back  to  whence  I  came, 

Or  on  to  where  the  pathway  leads ; 

And  crying,  "How  changed  from  where  it  ran 
Thro'  lauds  where  not  a  leaf  was  dumb ; 
But  all  the  lavish  hills  would  hum 

The  murmur  of  a  happy  Pan : 

"When  each  by  turns  was  guide  to  each, 
And  Fancy  light  from  Fancy  caught, 
And  Thought  leapt  out  to  wed  with  Thought 

Ere  Thought  could  wed  itself  with  Speech ; 


"And  all  we  met  was  fair  and  good, 
And  all  was  good  that  Time  could  bring, 
Aud  all  the  secret  of  the  Spring 

Moved  in  the  chambers  of  the  blood ; 

"And  many  an  old  philosophy 
On  Argive  heights  divinely  sang, 
And  round  us  all  the  thicket  rang 

To  many  a  flute  of  Arcady." 

XXIV. 

AND  was  the  day  of  my  delight 

As  sure  and  perfect  as  I  say? 

The  very  source  and  font  of  Day 
Is  dash'd  with  wandering  isles  of  night. 

If  all  was  good  and  fair  we  met, 
This  earth  had  been  the  Paradise 
It  never  look'd  to  human  eyes 

Since  Adam  left  his  garden  yet. 

And  is  it  that  the  haze  of  grief 
Makes  former  gladness  loom  so  great  T 
The  lowness  of  the  present  state, 

That  sets  the  past  in  this  relief? 

Or  that  the  past  will  always  win  • 

A  glory  from  its  being  far; 

And  orb  into  the  perfect  star 
We  saw  not,  when  we  moved  therein  ? 

XXV. 

I  KNOW  that  this  was  Life,— the  track 
Whereon  with  equal  feet  we  fared : 
And  then,  as  now,  the  day  prepared 

The  daily  burden,  for  the  back. 

But  this  it  was  that  made  me  move 
As  light  as  carrier-birds  in  air; 
I  loved  the  weight  I  had  to  bear, 

Because  it  needed  help  of  love ; 

Nor  could  I  weary,  heart  or  limb, 
When  mighty  Love  would  cleave  in  twair 
The  lading  of  a  single  pain, 

And  part  it,  giving  half  to  him. 

XXVI. 

STILL  onward  winds  the  dreary  way ; 
I  with  it :  for  I  long  to  prove 
No  lapse  of  moons  can  canker  Love, 

Whatever  fickle  tongues  may  say. 

And  if  that  eye  which  watches  guilt 
And  goodness,  and  hath  power  to  see 
Within  the  green  the  monlder'd  tree, 

And  towers  fall'n  as  soon  as  built, — 

O,  if  indeed  that  eye  foresee 
Or  see  (in  Him  is  no  before) 
In  more  of  life  true  life  no  more, 

And  Love  the  indifference  to  be, 

Then  might  I  find,  ere  yet  the  morn 
Breaks  hither  over  Indian  seas, 
That  Shadow  waiting  with  the  keys, 

To  shroud  me  from  my  proper  scorn. 

XXVII. 

I  ENTY  not  in  any  moods 
The  captive  void  of  noble  rage, 
The  linnet  born  within  the  cage, 

That  never  knew  the  summer  woods; 

I  envy  not  the  beast  that  takes 
His  license  in  the  field  of  time, 
Unfetter'd  by  the  sense  of  crime, 

To  whom  a  conscience  never  wakes: 


110 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


Nor,  what  may  count  itself  as  blest, 
The  heart  that  never  plighted  troth, 
But  stagnates  iu  the  weeds  of  sloth  ; 

Nor  any  want-begotteu  rest. 

I  hold  it  true,  whate'er  befall ; 

I  feel  it,  when  I  Borrow  most; 

'T  is  better  to  have  loved  and  lost 
Than  never  to  have  loved  at  alL 

XXVIII. 

THE  time  draws  near  the  birth  of  Christ: 
The  moon  is  hid ;  the  night  is  still ; 
The  Christmas  bells  from  hill  to  hill 

Answer  each  other  in  the  mist. 

Four  voices  of  four  hamlets  round, 
From  far  and  near,  on  mead  and  moor, 
Swell  out  and  fail,  as  if  a  door 

Were  shut  between  me  and  the  sound: 

Each  voice  four  changes  on  the  wind, 
That  now  dilate,  and  now  decrease, 
Peace  and  good-will,  good-will  and  peace, 

Peace  and  good-will,  to  all  mankind. 

This  year  I  slept  and  woke  with  pain, 
I  almost  wish'd  no  more  to  wake, 
And  that  my  hold  on  life  would  break 

Before  I  heard  those  bells  again  : 

But  they  my  troubled  spirit  rule, 
For  they  coutroll'd  me  when  a  boy; 
They  bring  me  sorrow  tonch'd  with  joy, 

The  merry,  merry  bells  of  Yule. 

XXIX. 

WITH  such  compelling  cause  to  grieve 
As  daily  vexes  household  peace, 
And  chains  regret  to  his  decease, 

How  dare  we  keep  our  Christmas-eve ; 

Which  brings  no  more  a  welcome  guest 
To  enrich  the  threshold  of  the  night 
With  shower'd  largess  of  delight, 

In  dance  and  song  and  game  and  jest 

Yet  go,  and  while  the  holly-boughs 
Entwine  the  cold  baptismal  font, 
Make  one  wreath  more  for  Use  and  Wont 

That  guard  the  portals  of  the  house ; 

Old  sisters  of  a  day  gone  by, 
Gray  nurses,  loving  nothing  new ; 
Why  should  they  miss  their  yearly  due 

Before  their  time  ?    They  too  will  die. 

XXX. 

WITH  trembling  fingers  did  we  weave 
The  holly  round  the  Christmas  hearth ; 
A  rainy  cloud  possess'd  the  earth, 

And  sadly  fell  our  Christmas-eve. 

At  our  old  pastimes  in  the  hall 
We  gamboll'd,  making  vain  pretence 
Of  gladness,  with  an  awful  sense 

Of  one  mute  Shadow  watching  alL 

We  paused :  the  winds  were  in  the  beech : 
We  heard  them  sweep  the  winter  land ; 
And  in  a  circle  hand-in-hand 

Sat  silent,  looking  each  at  each. 

Then  echo-like  our  voices  rang; 
We  sung,  tho'  every  eye  was  dim, 
A  merry  song  we  sang  with  him 

Last  year:  impetuously  we  sans: 


We  ceased:  a  gentler  feeling  crept 

Upon  us :  surely  rest  is  meet : 

"They  rest,"  we  said,  "their  sleep  is  sweet," 
And  silence  follow'd,  and  we  wept. 

Our  voices  took  a  higher  range ; 

Once  more  we  sang:  "They  do  not  die 

Nor  lose  their  mortal  sympathy, 
Nor  change  to  us,  although  they  change ; 

"Rapt  from  the  fickle  and  the  frail 
With  gather'd  power,  yet  the  same, 
Pierces  the  keeu  seraphic  flame 

From  orb  to  orb,  from  veil  to  veil." 

Rise,  happy  morn,  rise,  holy  morn, 
Draw  forth  the  cheerful  day  from  night  t 
O  Father,  touch  the  east,  and  light 

The  light  that  shone  when  Hope  was  born. 

XXXI. 

WHEN  Lazarus  left  his  charael-cave, 
And  home  to  Mary's  house  return 'cl, 
Was  this  demanded,— if  he  yearn'd 

To  hear  her  weeping  by  his  grave  ? 

"Where  wert  thou,  brother,  those  four  days?" 

There  lives  no  record  of  reply, 

Which  telling  what  it  is  to  die 
Had  surely  added  praise  to  praise. 

From  every  house  the  neighbors  met, 
The  streets  were  fill'd  with  joyful  sound, 
A  solemn  gladness  even  crown'd 

The  purple  brows  of  Olivet. 

Behold  a  man  raised  up  by  Christ ! 

The  rest  remaineth  unreveal'd  ; 

He  told  it  not;  or  something  seal'd 
The  lips  of  that  Evangelist. 

XXXII. 

HEE  eyes  are  homes  of  silent  prayer, 
Nor  other  thought  her  mind  admits 
But,  he  was  dead,  and  there  he  sits, 

And  he  that  brought  him  back  is  there. 

Then  one  deep  love  doth  supersede 
All  other,  when  her  ardent  gaze 
Roves  from  the  living  brother's  face, 

And  rests  upon  the  Life  indeed. 

All  subtle  thought,  all  curious  fears, 
Borne  down  by  gladness  so  complete, 
She  bows,  she  bathes  the  Saviour's  feet 

With  costly  spikenard  and  with  tears. 

Thrice  blest  whose  lives  are  faithful  prayers. 
Whose  loves  in  higher  love  endure ; 
What  souls  possess  themselves  so  pure, 

Or  is  there  blessedness  like  theirs  ? 

XXXIII. 

O  THOU  that  after  toil  and  storm 
Mayst  seem  to  have  reach'd  a  purer  air. 
Whose  faith  has  centre  everywhere, 

Nor  cares  to  fix  itself  to  form, 

Leave  thon  thy  sister,  when  she  prays, 
Her  early  Heaven,  her  happy  views ; 
Nor  thou  with  shadow'd  hint  confuse 

A  life  that  leads  melodious  days. 

Her  faith  thro'  form  is  pure  as  thine, 
Her  hands  are  quicker  unto  good : 
O,  sacred  be  the  flesh  and  blood 

To  which  she  links  a  truth  divine ! 


IN  MEMOKIAM. 


Ill 


See  them,  that  countest  reason  ripe 

In  holding  by  the  law  within, 

Thou  fail  riot  in  a  world  of  sin, 
And  ev'u  for  want  of  such  a  type. 

XXXIV. 

MY  own  dim  life  should  teach  me  this, 
That  life  shall  live  forevermore, 
Else  earth  is  darkness  at  the  core, 

And  dust  and  ashes  all  that  is; 

This  round  of  green,  this  orb  of  flame, 
Fantastic  beauty;  such  as  lurks 
In  some  wild  Poet,  when  he  works 

Without  a  conscience  or  an  aim. 

What  then  were  God  to  such  as  I  ? 

'T  were  hardly  worth  my  while  to  choose 

Of  things  all  mortal,  or  to  use 
A  little  patience  ere  I  die; 

'T  were  best  at  once  to  sink  to  peace, 
Like  birds  the  charming  serpent  draws, 
To  drop  head-foremost  in  the  jaws 

Of  vacant  darkness,  and  to  cease. 

XXXV. 

YET  if  some  voice  that  man  could  trust 
Should  murmur  from  the  narrow  house, 
"  The  cheeks  drop  in  ;  the  body  bows ; 

Man  dies:  nor  is  there  hope  in  dust:" 

Might  I  not  say,  "Yet  even  here, 
But  for  one  hour,  O  Love,  I  strive 
To  keep  so  sweet  a  thing  alive?" 

But  I  should  turn  mine  ears  and  hear 

The  moanings  of  the  homeless  sea, 
The  sound  of  streams  that  swift  or  slow 
Draw  down  ^Eonian  hills,  and  sow 

The  dust  of  continents  to  be ; 

And  Love  would  answer  with  a  sigh, 
"The  sound  of  that  forgetful  shore 
Will  change  my  sweetness  more  and  more, 

Half-dead  to  know  that  I  shall  die." 

O  me !  what  profits  it  to  put 
An  idle  case  ?    If  Death  were  seen 
At  first  as  Death,  Love  had  not  been, 

Or  been  in  narrowest  working  shut, 

Mere  fellowship  of  sluggish  moods, 

Or  in  his  coarsest  Satyr-shape 

Had  bruised  the  herb  and  crush'd  the  grape, 
And  bask'd  and  batten'd  in  the  woods. 

XXXVI. 

THO'  truths  in  manhood  darkly  join, 
Deep-seated  in  our  mystic  frame, 
We  yield  all  blessing  to  the  name 

Of  Him  that  made  them  current  coin ; 

For  Wisdom  dealt  with  mortal  powers, 
Where  truth  in  closest  words  shall  fail, 
When  truth  embodied  in  a  tale 

Shall  enter  in  at  lowly  doors. 

And  so  the  Word  had  breath,  and  wrought 
With,  human  hands  the  creed  of  creeds 
In  loveliness  of  perfect  deeds, 

More  strong  than  all  poetic  thought ; 

Which  he  may  read  that  binds  the  sheaf, 
Or  builds  the  house,  or  digs  the  grave, 
And  those  wild  eyes  that  watch  the  wave 

In  roarings  round  the  coral  reef. 


XXXVII. 

UBANIA  speaks  with  darken'd  brow ; 

"Thou  pratest  here  where  thou  art  least; 

This  faith  has  many  a  purer  priest, 
And  many  an  abler  voice  than  thou. 

"  Go  down  beside  thy  native  rill, 
On  thy  Parnassus  set  thy  feet, 
And  hear  thy  laurel  whisper  sweet 

About  the  ledges  of  the  hill." 

And  my  Melpomene  replies, 
A  touch  of  shame  upon  her  cheek : 
"I  am  not  worthy  ev'n  to  speak 

Of  thy  prevailing  mysteries ; 

"For  I  am  but  an  earthly  Muse, 
And  owning  but  a  little  art 
To  lull  with  song  an  aching  heart, 

And  render  human  love  his  dues; 

"But  brooding  on  the  dear  one  dead, 
And  all  he  said  of  things  divine, 
(And  dear  to  me  as  sacred  wine 

To  dying  lips  is  all  he  said,) 

"  I  murmur'd,  as  I  came  along, 
Of  comfort  clasp'd  in  truth  reveal'd ; 
And  loiter'd  in  the  Master's  field, 

And  darkeu'd  sanctities  with  song." 

XXXVIII. 

WITII  weary  steps  I  loiter  on, 
Tho'  always  under  alter'd  skies 
The  purple  from  the  distance  dies, 

My  prospect  and  horizon  gone. 

No  joy  the  blowing  season  gives, 
The  herald  melodies  of  spring, 
Bat  in  the  songs  I  love  to  sing 

A  doubtful  gleam  of  solace  lives. 

If  any  care  for  what  is  here 
Survive  in  spirits  render'd  free, 
Then  are  these  songs  I  sing  of  thee 

Not  all  ungrateful  to  thine  ear. 

XXXIX. 

COULD  we  forget  the  widow'd  hour, 
And  look  on  Spirits  breathed  away, 
As  on  a  maiden  in  the  day 

When  first  she  wears  her  orange-flower ! 

When  crown'd  with  blessing  she  doth  rise 
To  take  her  latest  leave  of  home, 
And  hopes  and  light  regrets  that  come 

Make  April  of  her  tender  eyes : 

And  donbtful  joys  the  father  move, 
And  tears  are  on  the  mother's  face, 
As  parting  with  a  long  embrace 

She  enters  other  realms  of  love : 

Her  office  there  to  rear,  to  teach, 
Becoming,  as  is  meet  and  fit, 
A  link  among  the  days,  to  knit 

The  generations  each  with  each; 

And,  doubtless,  unto  thee  is  given 
A  life  that  bears  immortal  fruit 
In  such  great  ofHces  as  snit 

The  full-grown  energies  of  heaven. 

Ay  me,  the  difference  I  discern  ! 
How  often  shall  her  old  fireside 
Be  cheer'd  with  tidings  of  the  bride. 

How  often  she  herself  return, 


112 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


And  tell  them  all  they  would  have  told, 
And  bring  her  babe,  and  make  her  boast, 
Till  even  those  that  miss'd  her  most 

Shall  count  new  things  as  dear  as  old: 

But  thou  and  I  have  shaken  hands, 
Till  growing  winters  lay  me  low; 
My  paths  are  in  the  fields  I  know, 

And  thine  in  undiscover'd  lands. 

XL. 

TIIT  spirit  ere  oar  fatal  loss 
Did  ever  rise  from  high  to  higher; 
As  mounts  the  heavenward  altar-fire, 

As  flies  the  lighter  thro'  the  gross. 

But  thou  art  turn'd  to  something  strange, 
And  I  have  lost  the  links  that  bound 
Thy  changes ;  here  upon  the  ground, 

No  more  partaker  of  thy  change. 

Deep  folly !  yet  that  this  could  be,— 
That  I  could  wing  my  will  with  might 
To  leap  the  grades  of  life  and  light, 

And  flash  at  once,  my  friend,  to  thee: 

For  tho'  my  nature  rarely  yields 
To  that  vague  fear  implied  in  death ; 
Nor  shudders  at  the  gulfs  beneath, 

The  bowlings  from'  forgotten  fields : 

Yet  oft  when  sundown  skirts  the  moor 

An  inner  trouble  I  behold, 

A  spectral  doubt  which  makes  me  cold, 
That  I  shall  be  thy  mate  no  more, 

Tho'  following  with  an  upward  mind 
The  wonders  that  have  come  to  thee, 
Thro'  all  the  secular  to-be, 

But  evermore  a  life  behind. 

XLI. 

I  TEX  my  heart  with  fancies  dim: 
He  still  outstript  me  in  the  race ; 
It  was  but  unity  of  place 

That  made  me  dream  I  rank'd  with  him. 

And  so  may  Place  retain  us  still, 
And  he  the  much-beloved  again, 
A  lord  of  large  experience,  train 

To  riper  growth  the  mind  and  will: 

And  what  delights  can  equal  those 
That  stir  the  spirit's  inner  deeps, 
When  one  that  loves,  but  knows  not,  reaps 

A  truth  from  one  that  loves  and  knows? 

XLII. 
Ir  Sleep  and  Death  be  truly  one. 

And  every  spirit's  folded  bloom 

Thro'  all  its  intervital  gloom 
In  some  long  trance  should  slumber  on ; 

Unconscious  of  the  sliding  hour, 

Bare  of  the  body,  might  it  last, 

And  silent  traces  of  the  past 
Be  all  the  color  of  the  flower: 

So  then  were  nothing  lost  to  man ; 

So  that  still  garden  of  the  souls 

In  many  a  figured  leaf  enrolls 
The  total  world  since  life  began ; 

And  love  will  last  as  pure  and  whole 
As  when  he  loved  me  here  in  Time, 
And  at  the  spiritual  prime 

Ecwaken  with  the  dawning  soul. 


XLIII. 
How  fares  it  with  the  happy  dead? 

For  here  the  man  is  more  and  more; 

But  he  forgets  the  days  before 
God  shut  the  doorways  of  his  head. 

The  days  have  vanish'd,  tone  and  tint, 
And  yet  perhaps  the  hoarding  sense 
Gives  out  at  times  (he  knows  not  whence' 

A  little  flash,  a  mystic  hint; 

And  in  the  long  harmonious  years 
(If  Death  so  taste  Lethean  springs) 
May  some  dim  touch  of  earthly  things 

Surprise  thee  ranging  with  thy  peers. 

If  such  a  dreamy  touch  should  fall, 
O  turn  thee  round,  resolve  the  doubt ; 
My  guardian  angel  will  speak  out 

In  that  high  place,  and  tell  thee  all. 

XLIV. 

THE  baby  new  to  earth  and  sky, 
What  time  his  tender  palm  is  prest 
Against  the  circle  of  the  breast, 

Has  never  thought  that  "  this  is  I :" 

But  as  he  grows  he  gathers  much, 
And  learns  the  use  of  "I,"  and  "me," 
And  finds  "I  am  not  what  I  see, 

And  other  than  the  things  I  touch." 

So  rounds  he  to  a  separate  mind 
From  whence  clear  memory  may  begin, 
As  thro'  the  frame  that  binds  him  in 

His  isolation  grows  defined. 

This  use  may  lie  in  blood  and  breath, 
Which  else  were  fruitless  of  their  due, 
Had  man  to  learn  himself  anew 

Beyond  the  second  birth  of  Death. 

XLV. 

Wr.  ranging  down  this  lower  track, 
The  path  we  came  by,  thorn  and  flower, 
Is  shadow'd  by  the  growing  hour, 

Lest  life  should  fail  in  looking  back. 

So  be  it:  there  no  shade  can  last 
In  that  deep  dawn  behind  the  tomb, 
But  clear  from  marge  to  marge  shall  bloom 

The  eternal  landscape  of  the  past : 

A  lifelong  tract  of  time  reveal'd ; 

The  fruitful  hours  of  still  increase ; 

Days  order'd  in  a  wealthy  peace, 
And  those  five  years  its  richest  field. 

0  Love,  thy  province  were  not  large,  • 
A  bounded  field,  nor  stretching  far; 
Look  also,  Love,  a  brooding  star, 

A  rosy  warmth  from  marge  to  marge. 

XLVI. 

THAT  each,  who  seems  a  separate  whole, 
Should  move  his  rounds,  and  fusing  all 
The  skirts  of  self  again,  should  fall 

Remerging  in  the  general  Soul, 

Is  faith  as  vague  as  all  unsweet: 
Eternal  form  shall  still  divide 
The  eternal  soul  from  all  beside ; 

And  I  shall  know  him  when  we  meet: 

And  we  shall  sit  at  endless  feast, 
Enjoying  each  the  other's  good: 
What  vaster  dream  can  hit  the  mood 

Of  Love  on  earth  ?    He  seeks  at  least 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


113 


Upon  the  last  and  sharpest  height, 
Before  the  spirits  fade  away, 
Some  landing-place  to  clasp  arid  say, 

"  Farewell !    We  lose  ourselves  in  light." 

XLVII. 

Ir  these  brief  lays  of  Sorrow  born, 
Were  taken  to  be  such  as  closed 
Grave  doubts  and  answers  here  proposed, 

Then  these  were  such  as  men  might  scorn: 

Her  care  is  not  to  part  and  prove ; 
She  takes,  when  harsher  moods  remit, 
What  slender  shade  of  doubt  may  flil^ 

And  makes  it  vassal  unto  love : 

And  hence,  indeed,  she  sports  with  words, 
But  better  serves  a  wholesome  law, 
And  holds  it  sin  and  shame  to  draw 

The  deepest  measure  from  the  chords: 

Nor  dare  she  trust  a  larger  lay, 
But  rather  loosens  from  the  lip 
Short  swallow-flights  of  song,  that  dip 

Their  wings  in  tears,  and  skim  away. 

XLVIII. 

FROM  art,  from  nature,  from  the  schools, 
Let  random  influences  glance, 
Like  light  in  many  a  shiver'd  lance 

That  breaks  about  the  dappled  pools: 

The  lightest  wave  of  thought  shall  lisp, 
The  fancy's  tenderest  eddy  wreathe, 
The  slightest  air  of  song  shall  breathe 

To  make  the  sullen  surface  crisp. 

And  look  thy  look,  and  go  thy  way, 
But  blame  not  thou  the  winds  that  make 
The  seeming-wanton  ripple  break, 

The  tender-pencil'd  shadow  play. 

Beneath  all  fancied  hopes  and  fears, 
Ay  me !  the  sorrow  deepens  down,    . 
Whose  muffled  motions  blindly  drown 

The  bases  of  my  life  in  tears. 

XLIX. 

BE  near  me  when  my  light  is  low, 
When  the  blood  creeps,  and  the  nerves  prick 
And  tingle;  and  the  heart  is  sick, 

And  all  the  wheels  of  Being  slow. 

Be  near  me  when  the  sensuous  frame 
Is  rack'd  with  pangs  that  conquer  trust: 
And  Time,  a  maniac  scattering  dust, 

And  Life,  a  Fury  slinging  flame. 

Be  near  me  when  my  faith  is  dry, 
And  men  the  flies  of  latter  spring, 
That  lay  their  eggs,  and  sting  and  sing, 

And  weave  their  petty  cells  and  die. 

Be  near  me  when  I  fade  away, 
To  point  the  term  of  human  strife, 
And  on  the  low  dark  verge  of  life 

The  twilight  of  eternal  dav. 


Do  we  indeed  desire  the  dead 
Should  still  be  near  ns  at  our  side? 
Is  there  no  baseness  we  would  hide? 

No  inner  vileness  that  we  dread? 

Shall  he  for  whose  applause  I  strove, 
I  had  such  reverence  for  his  blame, 
See  with  clear  eye  some  hidden  shame, 

And  I  be  lessen'd  in  his  love? 


I  wrong  the  grave  with  fears  untrue  : 
Shall  love  be  blamed  for  want  of  faith  ? 
There  must  be  wisdom  with  great  Death: 

The  dead  shall  look  me  thro'  and  thro'. 

Be  near  us  when  we  climb  or  fall  : 
Ye  watch,  like  God,  the  rolling  hours 
With  larger  other  eyes  than  ours, 

To  make  allowance  for  us  all. 

LI. 

I  CANNOT  love  thee  as  I  ought, 
For  love  reflects  the  thing  beloved  t 
My  words  are  only  words,  and  moved 

Upon  the  topmost  froth  of  thought. 

"Yet  blame  not  thou  thy  plaintive  song," 
The  Spirit  of  true  love  replied  ; 
"  Thou  canst  not  move  me  from  thy  side, 

Nor  human  frailty  do  me  wrong. 

"What  keeps  a  spirit  wholly  true 

To  that  ideal  which  he  bears? 

What  record?  not  the  sinless  years 
That  breathed  beneath  the  Syrian  bine: 

"  So  fret  not,  like  an  idle  girl, 
That  life  is-  dash?d  with  flecks  of  sm. 
Abide:  thy  wealth  is  gather'd  in, 

When  Time  hath  snnder'd  shell  from 


LII. 

How  many  a  father  have  I  seen, 
A  sober  man  among  his  boys, 
Whose  youth  was  full  of  foolish  nols«,- 

Who  wears  his  manhood  hale  and  green: 

And  dare  we  to  this  fancy  give, 
That  had  the  wild-oat  not  been  sown, 
The  soil,  left  barren,  scarce  had  grown 

The  grain  by  which  a  man  may  lire? 

O,  if  we  held  the  doctrine  sound 
For  life  outliving  heats  of  youth, 
Yet  who  would  preach  it  as  a  truth 

To  those  that  eddy  round  and  round? 

Hold  thou  the  good  :  define  it  well  : 

For  fear  divine  Philosophy 

Should  push  beyond  her  mark,  and  be 
Procuress  to  the  Lords  of  Hell. 

LIII. 

0  YET  we  trust  that  somehow  good 
Will  be  the  final  goal  of  ill, 
To  pangs  of  nature,  sins  of  will, 

Defects  of  doubt,  and  taints  of  blood  ; 

That  nothing  walks  with  aimless  feet; 
That  not  one  life  shall  be  destroy'd, 
Or  cast  as  rubbish  to  the  void, 

When  God  hath  made  the  pile  complete? 

That  not  a  worm  is  cloven  in  rain  ; 
That  not  a  moth  with  vain  desire 
Is  shrivell'd  in  a  fruitless  fire, 

Or  but  subserves  another's  gain. 

Behold  we  know  not  anything; 
I  can  but  trust  that  good  shall  faVl 
At  last—  far  off—  at  last,  to  all, 

And  every  winter  change  to  spring. 

So  runs  my  dream  :  but  what  am  I  ? 
An  infant  crying  in  the  night: 
An  infant  crying  for  the  light  : 

And  with  no  language  but  a  cry. 


114 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


LIV. 

THE  wish,  that  of  the  living  whole 
No  life  may  fail  beyond  the  grave, 
Derives  it  not  from  what  we  have 

The  likest  God  within  the  soul  ? 

Are  God  and  Nature  then  at  strife, 
That  Nature  lends  such  evil  dreams? 
So  careful  of  the  type  she  seems, 

So  careless  of  the  single  life ; 

That  I,  considering  everywhere 
Her  secret  meaning  in  her  deeds, 
And  finding  that  of  fifty  seeds 

She  often  brings  but  one  to  bear, 

I  falter  where  I  firmly  trod, 
And  falling  with  my  weight  of  cares 
Upon  the  great  world's  altar-stairs 

That  slope  thro1  darkness  up  to  God, 

I  stretch  lame  hands  of  faith,  and  grope, 
And  gather  dust  and  chaff,  and  call 
To  what  I  feel  is  Lord  of  all, 

And  faintly  trust  the  larger  hope. 

LV. 

"  So  careful  of  the  type  ?"  but  no. 
From  scarped  cliff  and  quarried  stona 
She  cries,  "A  thousand  types  are  gone: 

I  care  for  nothing,  all  shall  go. 

"Thou  makest  thine  appeal  to  me: 
I  bring  to  life,  1  bring  to  death : 
The  spirit  does  but  mean  the  breath: 

I  know  no  more."    And  he,  shall  he, 

Man,  her  last  work,  who  seem'd  so  fair, 
Such  splendid  purpose  in  his  eyes, 
Who  roll'd  the  psalm  to  wintry  skies, 

Who  built  him  fanes  of  fruitless  prayer, 

Who  trusted  God  was  love  indeed, 
And  love  Creation's  final  law, — 
Tho1  Nature,  red  in  tooth  and  claw 

With  ravin,  shriek'd  against  his  creed,— 

Who  loved,  who  suffer'd  countless  ills, 
Who  battled  for  the  True,  the  Just, 
Be  blown  about  the  desert  dust, 

Or  seal'd  within  the  iron  hills  ? 

No  more?    A  monster  then,  a  dream, 
A  discord.    Dragons  of  the  prime, 
That  tare  each  other  in  their  slime, 

Were  mellow  music  match'd  with  him. 

O  life  as  futile,  then,  as  frail ! 

O  for  thy  voice  to  soothe  and  bless ! 

What  hope  of  answer,  or  redress  ? 
Behind  the  veil,  behind  the  veil. 

LVL 

PEACE  ;  come  away :  the  song  of  woe 
Is  after  all  an  earthly  song : 
Peace ;  come  away :  we  do  him  wrong 

To  sing  so  wildly:  let  us  go. 

Come ;  let  us  go :  your  cheeks  are  pale ; 
But  half  my  life  I  leave  behind  : 
Methinks  my  friend  is  richly  shrined: 

Bat  I  shall  pass ;  my  work  will  fail. 

Yet  in  these  ears,  till  hearing  dies, 
One  set  slow  bell  will  seem  to  toll 
The  passing  of  the  sweetest  sonl 

That  ever  look'd  with  human  eyes. 


I  hear  it  now,  and  o'er  and  o'er, 

Eternal  greetings  to  the  dead ; 

And  "Ave,  Ave,  Ave,"  said, 
"  Adieu,  adieu,"  forevermore, 

Era 

IN  those  sad  words  I  took  farewell: 

Like  echoes  in  sepulchral  halls, 

As  drop  by 'drop  the  water  falls 
In  vaults  and  catacombs,  they  fell; 

And,  falling,  icily  broke  the  peace 
Of  hearts  that  beat  from  day  to  day, 
Half  conscious  of  their  dying  clay, 

And  those  cold  crypts  where  they  shall  cease. 

The  high  Muse  answer'd :  "  Wherefore  grieve 
Thy  brethren  with  a  fruitless  tear  ? 
Abide  a  little  longer  here, 

And  thon  shall  take  a  nobler  leave." 

LVIII. 

O  SOEROW,  wilt  thou  live  with  me, 
No  casual  mistress,  but  a  wife, 
My  bosom-friend  and  half  of  life ; 

As  I  confess  it  needs  must  be ; 

O  Sorrow,  wilt  thou  rule  my  blood, 
Be  sometimes  lovely  like  a  bride. 
And  put  thy  harsher  moods  asids. 

If  thou  wilt  have  me  wise  and  gooa. 

My  centred  passion  cannot  move, 

Nor  will  it  lessen  from  to-day; 

But  I'll  have  leave  at  times  to  play 
As  with  the  creature  of  my  love ; 

And  set  thee  forth,  for  thou  art  min'e, 
With  so  much  hope  for  years  to  come, 
That,  howsoe'er  I  know  thee,  some 

Could  hardly  tell  what  name  were  thine. 

LIX. 

HE  past ;  a  soul  of  nobler  tone : 
My  spirit  loved  and  loves  him  yet, 
Like  some  poor  girl  whose  heart  is  set 

On  one  whose  rank  exceeds  her  own. 

He  mixing  with  his  proper  sphere, 
She  finds  the  baseness  of  her  lot, 
Half  jealous  of  she  knows  not  what, 

And  envying  all  that  meet  him  there. 

The  little  village  looks  forlorn  ; 
She  sighs  amid  her  narrow  days, 
Moving  about  the  household  ways, 

In  that  dark  house  where  she  was  born. 

The  foolish  neighbors  come  and  go, 
And  tease  her  till  the  day  draws  by: 
At  night  she  weeps,  "  How  vain  am  I ! 

How  should  he  love  a  thing  so  low  ?" 

LX. 

Ir,  in  thy  second  state  sublime, 
Thy  ransom'd  reason  change  replies 
With  all  the  circle  of  the  wise, 

The  perfect  flower  of  human  time ; 

And  if  thou  cast  thine  eyes  below, 
How  dimly  character'd  and  slight, 
How  dwarf 'd  a  growth  of  cold  and  night, 

How  blanch'd  with  darkness  must  I  grow ! 

Yet  turn  thee  to  the  doubtful  shore, 
Where  thy  first  form  was  made  a  man ; 
I  loved  thee,  Spirit,  and  love,  nor  can 

The  soul  of  Shakespeare  love  thee  more. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


LXI. 

Tno'  if  an  eye  that  's  downward  cast 
Could  make  thee  somewhat  blench  or  fail, 
Then  be  my  love  an  idle  tale, 

And  fading  legend  of  the  past; 

And  thou,  as  one  that  once  declined 
When  he  was  little  more  than  boy, 
On  some  unworthy  heart  with  joy, 

But  lives  to  wed  an  equal  mind; 

And  breathes  a  novel  world,  the  while 
His  other  passion  wholly  dies,  • 
Or  in  the  light  of  deeper  eyes 

Is  matter  for  a  flying  smile. 

LXIL 

YET  pity  for  a  horse  o'er-driven, 
And  love  in  which  my  hound  has  part, 
Can  hang  no  weight  upon  my  heart 

In  its  assumptions  up  to  heaven ; 

And  I  am  so  much  more  than  these, 
As  thou,  perchance,  art  more  than  I, 
And  yet  I  spare  them  sympathy, 

And  I  would  set  their  pains  at  ease. 

So  mayst  thou  watch  me  where  I  weep, 
As,  unto  vaster  motions  bound, 
The  circuits  of  thine  orbit  round 

A  higher  height,  a  deeper  deep. 

LXIII. 

DOST  thou  look  back  on  what  hath  been, 

As  some  divinely  gifted  man, 

Whose  life  in  low  estate  began 
And  on  a  simple  village  green  ; 

Who  breaks  his  birth's  invidious  Ixir, 
And  grasps  the  skirts  of  happy  chance, 
And  breasts  the  blows  of  circumstance, 

And  grapples  with  his  evil  star; 

Who  makes  by  force  his  merit  known, 
And  lives  to  clutch  the  golden  keys, 
To  mould  a  mighty  state's  decrees, 

And  shape  the  whisper  of  the  throne  ; 

And  moving  up  from  high  to  higher, 
Becomes  on  Fortune's  crowning  slope 
The  pillar  of  a  people's  hope, 

The  centre  of  a  world's  desire ; 

Yet  feels,  as  in  a  pensive  dream, 
When  all  his  active  powers  are  still, 
A  distant  dearness  in  the  hill, 

A  secret  sweetness  in  the  stream, 

The  limit  of  his  narrower  fate, 
While  yet  beside  its  vocal  springs 
He  play'd  at  counsellors  and  kings, 

With  one  that  was  his  earliest  mate ; 

Who  ploughs  with  pain  his  native  lea 
And  reaps  the  labor  of  his  hands, 
Or  in  the  furrow  musing  stands : 

"Does  my  old  Mend  remember  me?" 

LXIV. 

SWEET  soul,  do  with  me  as  thou  wilt; 

I  lull  a  fancy  trouble-tost 

With  "Love's  too  precious  to  be  lost, 
A  little  grain  shall  not  be  spilt." 

And  in  that  solace  can  I  sing, 
Till  out  of  painful  phases  wrought 
There  flutters  up  a  happy  thought, 

Self-balanced  on  a  lightsome  wing: 


Since  we  deserved  the  name  of  friends, 

And  thine  effect  so  lives  in  me, 

A  part  of  mine  may  live  in  thee, 
And  move  thee  on  to  noble  ends. 

LXV. 

You  thought  my  heart  too  far  diseasod ; 

You  wonder  wfien  my  fancies  play 

To  find  me  gay  among  the  gay, 
Like  one  with  any  trifle  pleased. 

The  shade  by  which  my  life  was  crost, 
Which  makes  a  desert  in  the  mind, 
Has  made  me  kindly  with  my  kind, 

And  like  to  him  whose  sight  is  lost ; 

Whose  feet  are  guided  thro'  the  land, 
WThose  jest  among  his  friends  is  free, 
Who  takes  the  children  on  his  knee, 

And  winds  their  curls  about  his  hand : 

He  plays  with  threads,  he  beats  his  chair 
For  pastime,  dreaming  of  the  sky ; 
His  inner  day  can  never  die, 

His  night  of  loss  is  always  there." 

LXVI. 

WHEN  on  my  bed  the  moonlight  falls, 

I  know  that  in  thy  place  of  rest, 

By  that  broad  water  of  the  west, 
There  comes  a  glory  on  the  walls : 

Thy  marble  bright  in  dark  appears, 

As  slowly  steals  a  silver  flame 

Along  the  letters  of  thy  name, 
And  o'er  the  number  of  thy  years. 

The  mystic  glory  swims  away: 
From  off  my  bed  the  moonlight  dies ; 
And,  closing  eaves  of  wearied  eyes, 

I  sleep  till  dusk  is  dipt  in  gray : 

And  then  I  know  the  mist  is  drawn 
A  lucid  veil  from  coast  to  coast, 
And  in  the  dark  church,  like  a  ghost, 

Thy  tablet  glimmers  to  the  dawn. 

LXVII. 
WHEN  in  the  down  I  sink  my  head, 

Sleep,  Death's  twin-brother,  times  my  breath ; 

Sleep,  Death's  twin-brother,  knows  not  Death, 
Nor  can  I  dream  of  thee  as  dead : 

I  walk  as  ere  I  walk'd  forlorn, 
When  all  our  path  was  fresh  with  dew, 
And  all  the  bugle  breezes  blew 

Reveillee  to  the  breaking  morn. 

But  what  is  this  ?    I  turn  about, 
I  find  a  trouble  in  thine  eye, 
Which  makes  me  sad,  I  know  not  why, 

Nor  can  my  dream  resolve  the  doubt: 

But  ere  the  lark  hath  left  the  lea 

I  wake,  and  I  discern  the  truth ; 

It  is  the  trouble  of  my  youth 
That  foolish  sleep  transfers  to  thee. 

Lxvm. 

I  DREAM'D  there  would  be  Spring  no  more, 
That  Nature's  ancient  power  was  lost : 
The  streets  were  black  with  smoke  and  frost, 

They  cnatter'd  trifles  at  the  door : 

I  wander'd  from  the  noisy  town, 
I  found  a  wood  with  thorny  boughs : 
I  took  the  thorns  to  bind  my  brows, 

I  wore  them  like  a  civic  crown : 


11G 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


I  met  with  scoffs,  I  met  with  scorns 
From  youth  and  babe  and  hoary  hairs: 
They  call'd  me  in  the  public  squares 

The  fool  that  wears  a  crown  of  thorns: 

They  call'd  me  fool,  they  call'd  me  child : 

I  found  an  angel  of  the  night ; 

The  voice  was  low,  the  look  was  bright ; 
lie  look'd  upon  my  crown  and  smiled  : 

He  reach'd  the  glory  of  a  hand, 
That  seem'd  to  touch  it  into  leaf: 
The  voice  was  not  the  voice  of  grief; 

The  words  were  hard  to  understand. 

LXIX. 

I  CANNOT  see  ihe  features  right, 
When  on  the  gloom  I  strive  to  paint 
The  face  I  know ;  the  hues  are  faint 

And  mix  with  hollow  masks  of  night ; 

Cloud-towers  by  ghostly  masons  wrought, 
A  gulf  that  ever  shuts  and  gapes, 
A  hand  that  points,  and  palled  shapes 

lu  shadowy  thoroughfares  of  thought ; 

And  crowds  that  stream  from  yawning  doors, 
And  shoals  of  pucker'd  faces  drive ; 
Dark  bulks  that  tumble  half  alive, 

And  lazy  lengths  on  boundless  shores: 

Till  all  at  once  beyond  the  will 

I  hear  a  wizard  music  roll, 

And  thro'  a  lattice  on  the  soul 
Looks  thy  fair  face  and  makes  it  still. 

LXX. 

SLEEP,  kinsman  thou  to  death  and  trance 
And  madness,  thou  hast  forged  at  last 
A  night-long  Present  of  the  Past 

In  which  we  went  thro'  summer  France. 

Hadst  thou  such  credit  with  the  soul? 
Then  bring  an  opiate  trebly  strong, 
Drug  down  the  blindfold  sense  of  wrong 

That  so  my  pleasure  may  be  whole ; 

While  now  we  talk  as  once  we  talk'd 
Of  men  and  minds,  the  dust  of  change, 
The  days  that  grow  to  something  strange, 

In  walking  as  of  old  we  walk'd 

Beside  the  river's  wooded  reach, 
The  fortress,  and  the  mountain  ridge, 
The  cataract  flashing  from  the  bridge, 

The  breaker  breaking  on  the  beach. 

LXXI. 

RISKST  thon  thus,  dim  dawn,  again, 
And  howlest,  issuing  out  of  night, 
With  blasts  that  blow  the  poplar  white, 

And  lash  with  storm  the  streaming  pane? 

Day,  when  my  crowu'd  estate  begun 
To  pine  in  that  reverse  of  doom, 
Which  sicken'd  every  living  bloom, 

And  blnrr'd  the  splendor  of  the  sun ; 

Who  usherest  in  the  dolorous  hour 
With  thy  quick  tears  that  make  the  rose 
Pull  sideways,  and  the  daisy  close 

Her  crimson  fringes  to  the  shower ; 

Who  might'st  have  heaved  a  windless  flame 
Up  the  deep  East,  or,  whispering,  play'd 
A  chequer-work  of  beam  and  shade 

Along  the  hills,  yet  looked  the  same. 


As  wan,  as  chill,  as  wild  as  now ; 
Day,  mark'd  as  with  some  hideous  crime 
When  the  dark  hand  struck  down  thro'  time, 

And  cancell'd  nature's  best:  but  thou, 

Lift  as  thou  mayst  thy  burtheu'd  brows 
Thro'  clouds  that  drench  the  morning  star, 
And  whirl  the  uugarner'd  sheaf  afar, 

And  sow  the  sky  with  flying  boughs, 

And  up  thy  vault  with  roaring  sound 
Climb  thy  thick  noon,  disastrous  day; 
Touch  thy  dull  goal  of  joyless  gray, 

And  hide  thy  shame  beneath  the  ground. 

LXXII. 

So  many  worlds,  so  much  to  do, 
So  little  done,  such  things  to  be, 
How  know  I  what  had  need  of  thee, 

For  thou  wert  strong  as  thou  wert  trne? 

The  fame  is  qnench'd  that  I  foresaw, 
The  head  hath  miss'd  an  earthly  wreath : 
I  curse  not  nature,  no,  nor  death  ; 

For  nothing  is  that  errs  from  law. 

We  pass ;  the  path  that  each  man  trod 
Is  dim,  or  will  be  dim,  with  weeds : 
What  fame  is  left  for  human  deeds 

In  endless  age?    It  rests  with  God. 

0  hollow  wraith  of  dying  fame, 
Fade  wholly,  while  the  soul  exult,?, 
And  self-infolds  the  large  results 

Of  force  that  would  have  forged  a  name. 

LXXIII. 

As  sometimes  in  a  dead  man's  face, 
To  those  that  watch  it  more  and  more, 
A  likeness,  hardly  seen  before, 

Comes  out— to  some  one  of  his  race : 

So,  dearest,  now  thy  brows  are  cold, 
I  see  thee  what  thou  art,  and  know 
Thy  likeness  to  the  wise  below, 

Thy  kindred  with  the  great  of  old. 

But  there  is  more  than  I  can  see, 
And  what  I  see  I  leave  unsaid, 
Nor  speak  it,  knowing  Death  has  made 

His  darkness  beautiful  with  thee. 

LXXIV. 

1  LEAVE  thy  praises  unexpress'd 

In  verse  that  brings  myself  relief, 

And  by  the  measure  of  my  grief 

I  leave  thy  greatness  to  be  guess'd; 

What  practice  howsoe'er  expert 
In  fitting  aptest  words  to  things, 
Or  voice  the  richest-toned  that  sings 

Hath  power  to  give  thee  as  thou  wert? 

I  care  not  in  these  fading  days 
To  raise  a  cry  that  lasts  not  long, 
And  round  thee  with  the  breeze  of  song 

To  stir  a  little  dust  of  praise. 

Thy  leaf  has  perish'd  in  the  green, 
And,  while  we  breathe  beneath  the  sun, 
The  world  which  credits  what  is  done 

Is  cold  to  all  that  might  have  been. 

So  here  shall  silence  guard  thy  fame ; 

But  somewhere,  out  of  human  view, 

Whate'er  thy  hands  are  set  to  do 
Is  wrought  with  tumult  of  acclaim. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


117 


LXXV. 

TAKE  wings  of  fancy,  and  ascend, 
And  in  a  moment  set  thy  face 
Where  all  the  starry  heavens  of  space 

Are  sharpen'd  to  a  needle's  end ; 

Take  wings  of  foresight ;  lighten  thro' 
The  secular  abyss  to  come, 
And  lo,  thy  deepest  lays  are  dumb 

Before  the  mouldering  of  a  yew ; 

And  if  the  matin  songs,  that  woke 
The  darkness  of  our  planet,  last, 
Thine  own  shall  wither  in  the  vast, 

Ere  half  the  lifetime  of  an  oak. 

Ere  these  have  clothed  their  branchy  bowers 
With  fifty  Mays,  thy  songs  are  vain ; 
And  what  are  they  when  these  remain 

The  ruin'd  shells  of  hollow  towers  ? 

LXXVI. 

WHAT  hope  is  here  for  modern  rhyme 
To  him  who  tnrns  a  musing  eye 
On  songs,  and  deeds,  and  lives,  that  lie 

Foreshorten'd  in  the  tract  of  time  ? 

These  mortal  lullabies  of  pain 
May  bind  a  book,  may  line  a  box, 
May  serve  to  curl  a  maiden's  locks ; 

Or  when  a  thousand  moons  shall  wane 

A  man  upon  a  stall  may  find, 
And,  passing,  turn  the  page  that  tells 
A  grief,  then  changed  to  something  else, 

Sung  by  a  long-forgotten  mind. 

But  what  of  that  f  My  darken'd  ways 
Shall  ring  with  music  all  the  same; 
To  breathe  my  loss  is  more  than  fume, 

To  utter  love  more  sweet  than  praise. 

LXXVII. 

AGAIN  at  Christmas  did  we  weave 
The  holly  round  the  Christmas  hearth ; 
The  silent  snow  possess'd  the  earth, 

And  calmly  fell  our  Christmas-eve: 

The  yule-clog  sparkled  keen  with  frost, 
No  wing  of  wind  the  region  swept, 
But  over  all  things  brooding  slept 

The  quiet  sense  of  something  lost 

As  in  the  winters  left  behind, 
Again  our  ancient  games  had  place, 
The  mimic  picture's  breathing  grace, 

And  dance  and  song  and  hoodman-blind. 

Who  show'd  a  token  of  distress  ? 
No  single  tear,  no  mark  of  pain : 

0  sorrow,  then  can  sorrow  wane  ? 
O  grief,  can  grief  be  changed  to  less  ? 

O  last  regret,  regret  can  die  ! 
No, — mixt  with  all  this  mystic  frame, 
Her  deep  relations  are  the  same, 

But  with  long  use  her  tears  are  dry. 

Lxxvm. 

"MORE  than  my  brothers  are  to  me," 
Let  this  not  vex  thee,  noble  heart ! 

1  know  thee  of  what  force  thou  art 
To  hold  the  costliest  love  in-  fee. 

But  thou  and  I  are  one  in  kind, 
As  moulded  like  in  nature's  mint; 
And  hill  and  wood  and  field  did  print 

The  same  sweet  forms  in  either  mind. 


For  us  the  same  cold  streamlet  curl'd 
Thro'  all  his  eddying  coves ;  the  same 
All  winds  that  roam  the  twilight  came 

In  whispers  of  the  beauteous  world. 

At  one  dear  knee  we  profier'd  vows, 
One  lesson  from  one  book  we  learu'd, 
Ere  childhood's  flaxen  ringlet  turu'd 

To  black  and  brown  on  kindred  brows. 

And  so  my  wealth  resembles  thine, 
But  he  was  rich  where  I  was  poor, 
And  he  supplied  my  want  the  more 

As  his  unlikenegs  fitted  mine. 

LXXIX. 

IF  any  vague  desire  should  rise. 
That  holy  Death  ere  Arthur  died 
Had  moved  me  kindly  from  his  side, 

And  dropt  the  dust  011  tearless  eyes; 

Then  fancy  shapes,  as  fancy  can, 
The  grief  my  loss  in  him  had  wrought, 
A  grief  as  deep  as  life  or  thought, 

But  stay'd  in  peace  with  God  and  man. 

I  make  a  picture  in  the  brain ; 

I  hear  the  sentence  that  he  speaks ; 

He  bears  the  burthen  of  the  weeks  ; 
But  turns  his  burthen  into  gain. 

His  credit  thus  shall  set  me  free; 
And,  influence-rich  to  soothe  and  save, 
Unused  example  from  the  grave 

Reach  out  dead  bauds  to  comfort  me. 

LXXX. 

COUI.T)  I  have  said  while  he  was  here, 
"My  love  shall  now  no  further  range; 
There  cannot  come  a  mellower  change, 

For  now  is  love  mature  in  ear." 

Love,  then,  had  hope  of  richer  store : 
What  end  is  here  to  my  complaint? 
This  haunting  whisper  makes  me  faint, 

"More  years  had  made  me  love  thee  more." 

But  Death  returns  an  answer  sweet: 
"My  sudden  frost  was  sudden  gain, 
And  gave  all  ripeness  to  the  grain 

It  might  have  drawn  from  after-heat." 

LXXXI. 

I  WAGE  not  any  feud  with  Death 
For  changes  wrought  on  form  and  face; 
No  lower  life  that  earth's  embrace 

May  breed  with  him  can  fright  my  faith. 

Eternal  process  moving  on, 

From  state  to  state  the  spirit  walks; 

And  these  are  but  the  shatter'd  stalks, 
Or  ruin'd  chrysalis  of  one. 

Nor  blame  I  Death,  because  he  bare 
The  use  of  virtue  out  of  earth : 
I  know  transplanted  human  worth 

Will  bloom  to  profit,  otherwhere. 

For  this  alone  on  Death  I  wreak 
The  wrath  that  garners  in  my  heart  • 
He  put  our  lives  so  far  apart 

We  cannot  hear  each  other  speak 

LXXXIL 

DIP  down  upon  the  northern  shore, 
O  sweet  new-year,  delaying  long: 
Thou  doest  expectant  nature  wrong; 

Delaying  long,  delay  no  more. 


118 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


What  stays  thee  from  the  clouded  noons, 
Thy  sweetness  from  its  proper  place? 
Can  trouble  live  with  April  days, 

Or  sadness  in  the  summer  moons? 

Bring  orchis,  bring  the  foxglove  spire, 
The  little  speedwell's  darling  blue, 
Deep  tulips  dash'd  with  fiery  dew, 

Laburnums,  dropping-wells  of  fire. 

0  thou,  new-year,  delaying  long, 
Delayest  the  sorrow  in  my  blood, 
That  longs  to  burst  a  frozen  bud, 

And  flood  a  fresher  throat  with  song. 

LXXXIII. 

WUEN  I  contemplate  all  alone 
The  life  that  had  been  thine  below, 
And  fix  my  thoughts  on  all  the  glow 

To  which  thy  crescent  would  have  grown ; 

1  see  thee  sitting  crown'd  with  good, 
A  central  warmth  diffusing  bliss 

In  glance  and  smile,  and  clasp  and  kiss, 
On  all  the  branches  of  thy  blood ; 

Thy  blood,  my  friend,  and  partly  mine ; 
For  now  the  day  was  drawing  on 
When  thou  shouldst  link  thy  life  with  one 

Of  mine  own  house,  and  boys  of  thine 

Had  babbled  "  Uncle  "  on  my  knee ; 
But  that  remorseless  iron  hour 
Made  cypress  of  her  orange-flower, 

Despair  of  Hope,  and  earth  of  thee. 

I  seem  to  meet  their  least  desire, 
To  clap  their  cheeks,  to  call  them  mine. 
I  see  their  nnborn  faces  shino 

Beside  the  never-lighted  fire. 

I  see  myself  an  honor'd  gnest, 
Thy  partner  in  the  flowery  walk 
Of  letters,  genial  table-talk, 

Or  deep  dispute,  and  graceful  jest ; 

While  now  thy  prosperous  labor  fills 
The  lips  of  men  with  honest  praise, 
And  sun  by  sun  the  happy  days 

Descend  below  the  golden  hills 

With  promise  of  a  morn  as  fair ; 
And  all  the  train  of  bounteous  hours 
Conduct  by  paths  of  growing  powers 

To  reverence  and  the  silver  hair; 

Till  slowly  worn  her  earthly  robe, 
Her  lavish  mission  richly  wrought, 
Leaving  great  legacies  of  thought, 

Thy  spirit  should  fail  from  off  the  globe ; 

What  time  mine  own  might  also  flee, 
As  link'd  with  thine  in  love  and  fate, 
And,  hovering  o'er  the  dolorous  strait 

To  the  other  shore,  involved  in  thee, 

Arrive  at  last  the  blessed  goal, 
And  He  that  died  in  Holy  Land 
Would  reach  us  out  the  shining  hand, 

And  take  us  as  a  single  soul. 

What  reed  was  that  on  which  I  leant? 
Ah,  backward  fancy,  wherefore  wake 
The  old  bitterness  again,  and  break 

The  low  beginnings  of  content  ? 


LXXXIV. 

THIS  truth  came  borne  with  bier  and  pall, 
I  felt  it,  when  I  sorrow'd  most, 
'T  is  better  to  have  loved  and  lost, 

Than  never  to  have  loved  at  all 

O  true  in  word,  and  tried  in  deed, 
Demanding  so  to  bring  relief 
To  this  which  is  our  common  grief, 

What  kind  of  life  is  that  I  lead ; 

And  whether  trust  in  things  above 
Be  dimm'd  of  sorrow  or  sustain'd ; 
And  whether  love  for  him  have  drain'd 

My  capabilities  of  love ; 

Your  words  have  virtue  such  as  draws 
A  faithful  answer  from  the  breast, 
Thro'  light  reproaches,  half  exprest, 

And  loyal  unto  kindly  laws. 

My  blood  an  even  tenor  kept, 
Till  on  mine  ear  this  message  fall?, 
That  in  Vienna's  fatal  walls 

God's  finger  touch'd  him,  and  he  slept 

The  great  Intelligences  fair 
That  range  above  our  mortal  state, 
In  circle  round  the  blessed  gate, 

Received  and  gave  him  welcome  there; 

And  led  him  thro'  the  blissful  climes, 
And  show'd  him  in  the  fountain  fresh 
All  knowledge  that  the  sons  of  flesh 

Shall  gather  in  the  cycled  times. 

But  I  remain'd,  whose  hopes  were  dim, 
Whose  life,  whose  thoughts  were  little  worth, 
To  wander  on  a  darken'd  earth, 

Where  all  things  round  me  breathed  of  him. 

O  friendship,  equal-poised  control, 
O  heart,  with  kindliest  motion  warm, 

0  sacred  essence,  other  form, 

O  solemn  ghost,  O  crowned  soul  I 

Yet  none  could  better  know  than  I, 
How  much  of  act  at  human  hands 
The  sense  of  human  will  demands, 

By  which  we  dare  to  live  or  die. 

Whatever  way  my  days  decline, 

1  felt  and  feel,  tho'  left  alone, 
His  being  working  in  mine  own, 

The  footsteps  of  his  life  in  mine ; 

A  life  that  all  the  Muses  deck'd 
With  gifts  of  grace,  that  might  express 
All-comprehensive  tenderness, 

All-subtilizing  intellect: 

And  so  my  passion  hath  not  swerved 

To  works  of  weakness,  but  I  find 

An  image  comforting  the  mind, 
And  in  my  grief  a  strength  reserved. 

Likewise  the  imaginative  woe, 
That  loved  to  handle  spiritual  strife, 
Diffused  the  shock  thro'  all  my  life, 

But  in  the  present  broke  the  blow. 

My  pulses  therefore  beat  again 
For  other  friends  that  once  I  met; 
Nor  can  it  suit  me  to  forget 

The  mighty  hopes  that  make  us  men. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


119 


I  woo  your  love :  I  count  it  crime 

To  mourn  for  any  overmuch ; 

I,  the  divided  half  of  such 
A  friendship  as  had  master'd  Time ; 

Which  masters  Time  indeed,  and  is 

Eternal,  separate  from  fears : 
The  all-assuming  mouths  and  years 

Can  take  no  part  away  from  this  : 

But  Summer  on  the  steaming  floods, 
And  Spring  that  swells  the  narrow  brooks 
And  Autumn,  with  a  noise  of  rooks, 

That  gather  in  the  waning  woods, 

And  every  pulse  of  wind  and  wave 
Recalls,  in  change  of  light  or  gloom, 
My  old  affection  of  the  tomb, 

And  my  prime  passion  in  the  grave: 

My  old  affection  of  the  tomb, 
A  part  of  stillness,  yearns  to  speak : 
"Arise,  and  get  thee  forth  and  seek 

A  friendship  for  the  years  to  come. 

"I  watch  thee  from  the  quiet  shore; 

Thy  spirit  up  to  mine  can  reach; 

But  in  dear  words  of  human  speech 
We  two  communicate  no  more." 

And  I,  "  Can  clouds  of  nature  stain 
The  starry  clearness  of  the  free  ? 
How  is  it?  Canst  thou  feel  for  me 

Some  painless  sympathy  with  pain?" 

And  lightly  does  the  whisper  fall: 
"'T  is  hard  for  thee  to  fathom  this: 
I  triumph  in  conclusive  bliss, 

And  that  serene  result  of  all." 

So  hold  I  commerce  with  the  dead ; 

Or  so  methinks  the  dead  would  say; 

Or  so  shall  grief  with  symbols  play, 
And  pining  life  be  fancy-fed. 

Now  looking  to  some  settled  end, 
That  these  things  pass,  and  I  shall  prove 
A  meeting  somewhere,  love  with  love, 

I  crave  your  pardon,  O  my  friend ; 

If  not  so  fresh,  with  love  as  true, 
I,  clasping  brother-hands,  aver 
I  could  not,  if  I  would,  transfer 

The  whole  I  felt  for  him  to  you. 

For  which  be  they  that  hold  apart 
The  promise  of  the  golden  hours  ? 
First  love,  first  friendship,  equal  powers, 

That  marry  with  the  virgin  heart. 

Still  mine,  that  cannot  but  deplore, 
That  beats  within  a  lonely  place, 
That  yet  remembers  his  embrace, 

But  at  his  footstep  leaps  no  more, 

My  heart,  tho'  widow'd,  may  not  rest 
Quite  in  the  love  of  what  is  gone, 
But  seeks  to  beat  in  time  with  one 

That  warms  another  living  breast 

Ah,  take  the  imperfect  gift  I  bring, 
Knowing  the  primrose  yet  is  dear, 
The  primrose  of  the  later  year, 

As  not  unlike  to  that  of  Spring. 

LXXXV. 

SWEET  after  showers,  ambrosial  air, 
That  rollest  from  the  gorgeous  gloom 
Of  evening  over  brake  and  bloom 

And  meadow,  slowly  breathing  bare 


The  round  of  space,  and  rapt  below 
Thro'  all  the  dewy-tassell'd  wood, 
And  shadowing  down  the  horned  flood 

In  ripples,  fan  my  brows  and  blow 

The  fever  from  my  cheek,  and  sigh 
The  full  new  life  that  feeds  thy  breath 
Throughout  my  frame,  till  Doubt  and  Death, 

111  brethren  let  the  fancy  fly 

From  belt  to  belt  of  crimson  seas 
On  leagues  of  odor  streaming  far, 
To  where  in  yonder  orient  star 

A  hundred  spirits  whisper  "Peace." 

LXXXVI. 

I  PAST  beside  the  reverend  walls 
In-  which  of  old  I  wore  the  gown  ; 
I  roved  at  random  thro'  the  town, 

And  saw  the  tumult  of  the  halls ; 

And  heard  once  more  in  college  fanes 
The  storm  their  high-built  organs  make, 
And  thunder-music,  rolling,  shake 

The  prophets  blazon'd  on  the  panes ; 

And  caught  once  more  the  distant  shout, 
The  measured  pulse  of  racing  oars 
Among  the  willows;  paced  the  shores 

And  many  a  bridge,  and  all  about 

The  same  gray  flats  again,  and  felt 
The  same,  but  not  the  same ;  and  last 
Up  that  long  walk  of  limes  I  past 

To  see  the  rooms  in  which  he  dwelt 

Another  name  was  on  the  door : 
I  linger'd ;  all  within  was  noise 
Of  songs,  and  clapping  hands,  and  boys 

That  crash'd  the  glass  and  beat  the  floor; 

Where  once  we  held  debate,  a  band 
Of  youthful  friends,  on  mind  and  art, 
And  labor,  and  the  changing  mart, 

And  all  the  framework  of  the  land ; 

When  one  would  aim  an  arrow  fair, 
But  send  it  slackly  from  the  string ; 
And  one  would  pierce  an  outer  ring, 

And  one  an  inner,  here  and  there ; 

And  last  the  master-bowman,  he 
Would  cleave  the  mark.    A  willing  ear 
We  lent  him.    Who,  but  hung  to  hear 

The  rapt  oration  flowing  free 

From  point  to  point,  with  power  and  grace 
And  music  in  the  bounds  of  law, 
T\)  those  conclusions  when  we  saw 

The  God  within  him  light  his  face, 

And  seem  to  lift  the  form,  and  glow 

In  azure  orbits  heavenly-wise ; 

And  over  those  ethereal  eyes 
The  bar  of  Michael  Angelo. 

LXXXVII. 

WILD  bird,  whose  warble,  liquid  sweet, 
Rings  Eden  thro1  the  budded  quicks, 
O  tell  me  where  the  senses  mix, 

O  tell  me  where  the  passions  meet, 

Whence  radiate  :  fierce  extremes  employ 
Thy  spirits  in  the  darkening  leaf, 
And  in  the  midmost  heart  of  grief 

Thy  passion  clasps  a  secret  joy : 


120 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


And  I— my  harp  would  prelude  woe— 
I  cannot  all  command  the  strings: 
The  glory  of  the  sum  of  things 

Will  flash  along  the  chords  and  go. 

LXXXVIII. 

WITCH-ELMS  that  counterchange  the  floor 
Of  this  flat  lawn  with  dusk  and  bright; 
And  thou,  with  all  thy  breadth  and  height 

Of  foliage,  towering  sycamore ; 

IIow  often,  hither  wandering  down, 
My  Arthur  found  your  shadows  fair, 
And  shook  to  all  the  liberal  air 

The  dust  and  din  and  steam  of  town : 

He  brought  an  eye  for  all  he  saw ; 

He  mixt  in  all  our  simple  sports ; 

They  pleased  him,  fresh  from  broiling  courts 
And  dusty  purlieus  of  the  law. 

O  joy  to  him  in  this  retreat, 
Immantled  in  ambrosial  dark, 
To  drink  the  cooler  air,  and  mark 

The  landscape  winking  thro'  the  heat: 

O  sound  to  rout  the  brood  of  care?, 
The  sweep  of  scythe  in  morning  dew, 
The  gust  that  round  the  garden  flew, 

And  tumbled  half  the  mellowing  pears ! 

O  bliss,  when  all  in  circle  drawn 
About  him,  heart  and  ear  were  fed 
To  hear  him,  as  he  lay  and  read 

The  Tuscan  poet  on  the  lawn: 

Or  in  the  all-golden  afternoon 
A  guest,  or  happy  sister,  sung, 
Or  here  she  brought  the  harp  and  flnng 

A  ballad  to  the  brightening  moon: 

Nor  less  it  pleased  in  livelier  moods, 
Beyond  the  bounding  hill  to  stray, 
And  break  the  livelong  summer  day 

With  banquet  in  the  distant  woods ; 

Whereat  we  glanced  from  theme  to  theme, 
Discuss'd  the  books  to  love  or  hate, 
Or  touch'd  the  changes  of  the  state, 

Or  threaded  some  Socratic  dream; 

But  if  I  praised  the  busy  town, 
He  loved  to  rail  against  it  still, 
For  "ground  in  yonder  social  mill, 

We  rub  each  other's  angles  down, 

"And  merge,"  he  said,  "in  form  and  gloss 
The  picturesque  of  man  and  man." 
We  talk'd:  the  stream  beneath  us  ran,  • 

The  wine-flask  lying  conch'd  in  moss, 

Or  cool'd  within  the  gloomisg  wave ; 

And  last,  returning  from  afar, 

Before  the  crimson-circled  star 
Had  fall'n  into  her  father's  grave, 

And  brushing  ankle-deep  in  flowers, 
We  heard  behind  the  woodbine  veil 
The  milk  that  bubbled  in  the  pail, 

And  buzzings  of  the  honeyed  hours. 

•  LXXXIX. 

HE  tasted  love  with  half  his  mint), 
Nor  ever  drank  the  inviolate  spring 
Where  nighest  heaven,  who  first  could  fling 

This  bitter  seed  among  mankind : 


That  could  the  dead,  whose  dying  eyes 
Were  closed  with  wail,  resume  their  life, 
They  would  but  find  in  child  and  wife 

An  iron  welcome  when  they  rise  : 


T  was  well,  indeed,  when  warm  with 
To  pledge  them  with  a  kindly  tear, 
To  talk  them  o'er,  to  wish  them  here, 

To  count  their  memories  half  divine  ; 

But  if  they  came  who  passed  away, 
Behold  their  brides  in  other  hands  ; 
The  hard  heir  strides  about  their  lands, 

And  will  not  yield  them  for  a  day. 

Yea,  tho'  their  sons  were  none  of  these, 
Not  less  the  yet-loved  sire  would  make 
Confusion  worse  than  death,  and  shake 

The  pillars  of  domestic  peace. 

Ah  dear,  but  come  thou  bacfo  to  me  : 
Whatever  change  the  years  have  wrought, 
I  find  not  yet  one  lonely  thought 

That  cries  against  my  wish  for  thee. 

XC. 

WIIKX  rosy  plumelets  tuft  the  larch, 
And  rarely  pipes  the  mounted  thrush; 
Or  underneath  the  barren  bush 

Flits  by  the  sea-blue  bird  of  March  ; 

Come,  wear  the  form  by  which  I  know 
Thy  spirit  in  time  among  thy  peers  ; 
The  hope  of  unaccomplish'd  years 

Be  large  and  lucid  round  thy  brow. 

When  summer's  hourly-mellowing  change 
May  breathe,  with  many  roses  sweet, 
Upon  the  thousand  waves  of  wheat, 

That  ripple  round  the  lonely  grange  ; 

Come  :  not  in  watches  of  the  night, 
But  where  the  sunbeam  broodeth  warm, 
Come,  beauteous  in  thine  after  form, 

And  like  a  finer  light  in  light. 

XCI. 

IF  any  vision  should  reveal 

Thy  likeness,  I  might  count  it  vain, 
.  As  but  the  canker  of  the  braiu  ; 
Yea,  tho'  it  spake  and  made  appeal 

To  chances  where  our  lots  were  cast 

Together  in  the  days  behind. 

I  might  but  say,  I  hear  a  wind 
Of  memory  murmuring  the  past. 

Yea,  tho'  it  spake  and  bared  to  view 
A  fact  within  the  coming  year  ; 
And  tho'  the  months,  revolving  near, 

Should  prove  the  phantom-warning  true, 

They  might  not  seem  thy  prophecies, 

But  spiritual  presentiments, 

And  such  refraction  of  events 
As  often  rises  ere  they  rise. 

XCII. 

I  SHALT,  not  see  thee.    Dare  I  say 
No  spirit  ever  brake  the  band 
That  stays  him  from  the  native  land, 

Where  first  he  walk'd  when  claspt  in  clay? 

No  visual  shade  of  some  one  lost, 
But  he,  the  Spirit  himself,  may  come 
Where  all  the  nerve  of  sense  is  numb 

Spirit  to  Spirit,  Ghost  to  Ghost. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


121 


O,  therefore  from  thy  sightless  range 
With  gods  in  unconjectured  bliss, 
O,  from  the  distance  of  the  abyss 

Of  tenfold-complicated  change, 

Descend,  and  tonch,  and  enter ;  hear 
The  wish  too  strong  for  words  to  name ; 
That  in  this  blindness  of  the  frame 

My  Ghost  may  feel  that  thine  is  near. 

XCIII. 

How  pure  at  heart  and  sound  in  .head, 

With  what  diviue  affections  bold, 

Should  be  the  man  whose  thought  would  hold 
An  hour's  communion  with  the  dead. 

In  vain  shalt  thon,  or  any,  call 
The  spirits  from  their  golden  day, 
Except,  like  them,  thou  too  canst  say, 

My  spirit  is  at  peace  with  all. 

They  hauut  the  silence  of  the  breast, 

Imaginations  calm  and  fair, 

The  memory  like  a  cloudless  air, 
The  conscience  as  a  sea  at  rest: 

But  when  the  heart  is  full  of  din, 
And  doubt  beside  the  portal  waits, 
They  can  but  listen  at  the  gates, 

And  hear  the  household  jar  within. 

XCIV. 

BY  night  we  liuger'd  on  the  lawn, 

For  underfoot  the  herb  was  dry ; 

And  genial  warmth ;  and  o'er  the  sky 
The  silvery  haze  of  summer  drawn ; 

And  calm  that  let  the  tapers  burn 
Unwavering:  not  a  cricket  chirr'd: 
The  brook  alone  far-off  was  heard, 

And  on  the  board  the  fluttering  urn : 

And  bats  went  round  in  fragrant  skies, 
And  wheel'd  or  lit  the  filmy  shapes 
That  haunt  the  dusk,  with  ermine  capes 

And  woolly  breasts  and  beaded  eyes; 

While  now  we  sang  old  songs  that  peal'd 
From  knoll  to  knoll,  where,  couch'd  at  ease, 
The  white  kiue  glimmer'd,  and  the  trees 

Laid  their  dark  arms  about  the  field. 

But  when  those  others,  one  by  one, 
Withdrew  themselves  from  me  and  night, 
And  in  the  house  light  after  light 

Went  out,  and  I  was  all  alone, 

A  hunger  seized  my  heart ;    I  read 
Of  that  glad  year  that  once  had  been, 
In  those  fall'n  leaves  which  kept  their  green, 

The  noble  letters  of  the  dead: 

And  strangely  on  the  silence  broke 
The  silent-speaking  words,  and  strange 
Was  love's  dumb  cry  defying  change 

To  test  his  worth ;  and  strangely  spoke 

The  faith,  the  vigor,  bold  to  dwell 
On  doubts  that  drive  the  coward  back, 
And  keen  thro'  wordy  snares  to  track 

Suggestion  to  her  inmost  cell. 

So  word  by  word,  and  line  by  line, 
The  dead  man  touch'd  me  from  the  past, 
And  all  at  once  it  seem'd  at  last 

His  living  soul  was  flash'd  on  mine, 


And  mine  iu  his  was  wound,  and  whirl'd 
About  empyreal  heights  of  thought, 
And  came  on  that  which  is,  and  caught 

The  deep  pulsations  of  the  world, 

Ionian  music  measuring  out 
The  steps  of  Time,  the  shocks  of  Chance, 
The  blows  of  Death.    At  length  my  trance 

Was  cancell'd,  stricken  thro'  with  doubt. 

Vague  words !  but  ah,  how  hard  to  frame 
In  matter-moulded  forms  of  speech, 
Or  ev'n  for  intellect  to  reach 

Thro'  memory  that  which  I  became : 

Till  now  the  doubtful  dusk  reveal'd 
The  knoll  once  more  where,  couch'd  at  east 
The  white  kine  glimmer'd,  and  the  trees 

Laid  their  dark  arms  about  the  field : 

And,  suck'd  from  out  the  distant  gloom, 
A  breeze  began  to  tremble  o'er 
The  large  leaves  of  the  sycamore, 

And  fluctuate  all  the  still  perfume, 

And  gathering  freshlier  overhead, 
Rock'd  the  full-foliaged  elms,  and  swung 
The  heavy-folded  rose,  and  flung 

The  lilies  to  and  fro,  and  said, 

"  The  dawn,  the  dawn,"  and  died  away ; 
And  East  and  West,  without  a  breath, 
Mixt  their  dim  lights,  like  life  and  death, 

To  broaden  into  boundless  day. 

xcv. 

You  say,  but  with  no  touch  of  scorn, 
Sweet-hearted,  you,  whose  light-blue  eyes 
Are  tender  over  drowning  flies, 

You  tell  me,  doubt  is  Devil-born. 

I  know  not :  one  indeed  I  knew   • 
In  many  a  subtle  question  versed, 
Who  touch'd  a  jarring  lyre  at  first, 

But  ever  strove  to  make  it  true : 

Perplext  in  faith,  but  pure  in  deeds, 

At  last  he  beat  his  music  out. 

There  lives  more  faith  in  honest  doubt, 
Believe  me,  than  in  half  the  creeds. 

He  fought  his  doubts  and  gathef'd  strength, 
He  would  not  make  his  judgment  blind, 
He  faced  the  spectres  of  the  mind 

And  laid  them:  thus  he  came  at  length 

To  find  a  stronger  faith  his  own ; 
And  Power  was  with  him  in  the  night, 
Which  makes  the  darkness  and  the  light, 

And  dwells  not  in  the  light  alone, 

Bnt  in  the  darkness  and  the  cloud, 
As  over  Sinai's  peaks  of  old, 
While  Israel  made  their  gods  of  gold, 

Altho'  the  trumpet  blew  so  loud. 

XCVI. 

Mr  love  has  talk'd  with  rocks  and  trees ; 
He  finds  on  misty  mountain-ground 
His  own  vast  shadow  glory-crowu'd ; 

He  sees  himself  in  all  he  sees. 

Two  partners  of  a  married  life, — 
I  look'd  on  these,  and  thought  of  thee 
In  vastness  and  in  mystery, 

And  of  my  spirit  as  of  a  wife. 


IN  MEMOKIAM. 


These  two— they  dwelt  with  eye  on  eye, 
Their  hearts  of  old  have  beat  in  tune, 
Their  meetings  made  December  June, 

Their  every  parting  was  to  die. 

Their  love  has  never  past  away ; 
The  days  she  never  can  forget 
Are  earnest  that  he  loves  her  yet, 

Whate'er  the  faithless  people  say. 

Her  life  is  lone,  he  sits  apart, 
He  loves  her  yet,  she  will  not  weep, 
Tho'  rapt  in  matters  dark  and  deep 

He  seems  to  slight  her  simple  heart. 

He  thrids  the  labyrinth  of  the  mind, 
He  reads  the  secret  of  the  star, 
He  seems  so  near  and  yet  so  far, 

He  looks  so  cold:  she  thinks  him  kind. 

She  keeps  the  gift  of  years  before, 

A  wither'd  violet  is  her  bliss ; 

She  knows  not  what  his  greatness  is : 
For  that,  for  all,  she  loves  him  more. 

For  him  she  plays,  to  him  she  sings 
Of  early  faith  and  plighted  vows ; 
She  knows  but  matters  of  the  house, 

And  he,  he  knows  a  thousand  things. 

Her  faith  is  flxt  and  cannot  move, 
She  darkly  feels  him  great  and  wise, 
She  dwells  on  him  with  faithful  eyes, 

"I  cannot  understand:  I  love." 

XCVII. 

You  leave  us :  you  will  see  the  Rhine, 
And  those  fair  hills  I  sail'd  below, 
When  I  was  there  with  him  ;  and  go 

By  summer  belts  of  'Wheat  and  vine 

To  where  he  breathed  his  latest  breath, 
That  City.    All  her  splendor  seems 
No  livelier  than  the  wisp  that  gleams 

On  Lethe  in  the  eyes  of  Death. 

Let  her  great  Danube  rolling  fair 
Enwind  her  isles,  unmark'd  of  me : 
I  have  not  seen,  I  will  not  see 

Vienna;  rather  dream  that  there, 

A  treble  darkness,  Evil  haunts 

The  birth,  the  bridal ;  friend  from  friend 

Is  oftener  parted,  fathers  bend 
Above  more  graves,  a  thousand  wants 

Gnarr  at  the  heels  of  men,  and  prey 
By  each  cold  hearth,  and  sadness  flings 
Her  shadow  on  the  blaze  of  kings : 

And  yet  myself  have  heard  him  say, 

That  not  in  any  mother  town 
With  statelier  progress  to  and  fro 
The  double  tides  of  chariots  flow 

By  park  and  suburb  under  brown 

Of  Instier  leaves;  nor  more  content, 
He  told  me,  lives  in  any  crowd, 
When  all  is  gay  with  lamps,  and  loud 

With  sport  nnd  song,  in  booth  and  tent, 

Imperial  halls,  or  open  plain  ; 

And  wheels  the  circled  dance,  and  breaks 

The  rocket  molten  into  flakes 
Of  crimson  or  in  emerald  rain. 


XCVIIL 

RISEST  thou  thus,  dim  dawn,  again, 
So  loud  with  voices  of  the  birds, 
So  thick  with  lowings  of  the  herds, 

Day,  when  I  lost  the  flower  of  men ; 

Who  tremblest  thro'  thy  darkling  red 
On  yon  swoll'n  brook  that  bubbles  fart 
By  meadows  breathing  of  the  past, 

And  woodlands  holy  to  the  dead ; 

Who  mnrmurest  in  the  foliaged  eaves 
A  song  that  slights  the  coming  care, 
And  Autumn  laying  here  and  there 

A  fiery  finger  on  the  leaves ; 

Who  wakenest  with  thy  balmy  breath, 
To  myriads  on  the  genial  earth, 
Memories  of  bridal,  or  of  birth, 

And  unto  myriads  more,  of  death 

O,  wheresoever  those  may  be, 
Betwixt  the  slumber  of  the  poles, 
To-day  they  count  as  kindred  souls; 

They  know  me  not,  but  mourn  with  me.    ' 

XCIX. 

I  CLIMB  the  hill:  from  end  to  end 
Of  all  the  landscape  underneath, 
I  find  no  place  that  does  not  breathe 

Some  gracious  memory  of  my  friend ; 

No  gray  old  grange,  or  lonely  fold, 
Or  low  morass  and  whispering  reed, 
Or  simple  stile  from  mead  to  mead, 

Or  sheepwalk  up  the  windy  wold ; 

No  hoary  knoll  of  ash  and  haw 
That  hears  the  latest  linnet  trill, 
Nor  quarry  trench'd  along  the  hill, 

And  haunted  by  the  wrangling  daw; 

Nor  runlet  tinkling  from  the  rock; 
Nor  pastoral  rivulet  that  swerves 
To  left  and  right  thro'  meadowy  curves,  , 

That  feed  the  mothers  of  the  flock ; 

Bnt  each  has  pleased  a  kindred  eye, 
And  each  reflects  a  kindlier  day ; 
And,  leaving  these,  to  pass  away, 

I  think  once  more  he  seems  to  die. 

C. 

UNWATCH'D,  the  garden  bough  shall  sway- 
The  tender  blossom  flutter  down, 
Unloved,  that  beech  will  gather  brown, 

This  maple  barn  itself  away ; 

Unloved,  the  sun-flower,  shining  fair, 
Ray  round  with  flames  her  disk  of  seed, 
An.d  many  a  rose-carnation  feed 

With  summer  spice  the  humming  air ; 

Unloved,  by  many  a  sandy  bar, 
The  brook  shall  babble  down  the  plain, 
At  noon,  or  when  the  lesser  wain 

Is  twisting  round  the  polar  star; 

Uncared  for,  gird  the  windy  grove, 
And  flood  the  haunts  of  hern  and  crake; 
Or  into  silver  arrows  break 

The  sailing  moon  in  creek  and  cove; 

Till  from  the  garden  and  the  wild 

A  fresh  association  blow, 

And  year  by  year  the  landscape  grow 
Familiar  to  the  stranger's  child ; 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


123 


As  year  by  year  the  laborer  tills 
His  wonted  glebe,  or  lops  the  glades; 
And  year  by  year  our  memory  fades 

From  all  the  circle  of  the  hills. 

CI. 

WE  leave  the  well-beloved  place 
Where  first  we  gazed  upon  the  sky; 
The  roofs,  that  heard  our  earliest  cry, 

Will  shelter  one  of  stranger  race. 

We  go,  but  ere  we  go  from  home, 
As  down  the  garden-walks  I  move, 
Two  spirits  of  a  diverse  love 

Contend  for  loving  masterdom. 

One  whispers,  here  thy  boyhood  sung 
Long  since  its  matin  song,  and  heard 
The  low  love-language  of  the  bird 

In  native  hazels  tassel-hung. 

The  other  answers,  "  Yea,  but  here 
Thy  feet  have  strayed  in  after  hours 
With  thy  lost  friend  among  the  bowers, 

And  this  hath  made  them  trebly  dear." 

These  two  have  striven  half  the  day, 
And  each  prefers  his  separate  claim, 
Poor  rivals  in  a  losing  game, 

That  will  not  yield  each  other  way. 

I  turn  to  go:  my  feet  are  set 

To  leave  the  pleasant  fields  and  farms; 

They  mix  in  one  another's  arms 
To  one  pure  image  of  regret, 

CII. 

ON  that  last  night  before  we  went 
From  out  the  doors  where  I  was  bred, 
I  dream'd  a  vision  of  the  dead, 

Which  left  my  after-morn  content 

Methought  I  dwelt  within  a  hall, 
And  maidens  with  me  :  distant  hills 
From  hidden  summits  fed  with  rills 

A  river  sliding  by  the  wall. 

The  hall  with  harp  and  carol  rang. 
They  sang  of  what  is  wise  and  good 
And  graceful.    In  the  centre  stood 

A  statue  veil'd,  to  which  they  sang  ; 

And  which,  tho'  veil'd,  was  known  to  me, 
The  shape  of  him  I  loved,  and  love 
Forever:  then  flew  in  a  dove 

And  brought  a  summons  from  the  sea: 

And  when  they  learnt  that  I  must  go, 
They  wept  and  wail'd,  but  led  the  way 
To  where  a  little  shallop  lay 

At  anchor  in  the  flood 


And  on  by  many  a  level  mead, 
And  shadowing  bluff  that  made  the  banks, 
We  glided  winding  under  ranks 

Of  iris,  and  the  golden  reed  ; 

And  still  as  vaster  grew  the  shore, 
And  roll'd  the  floods  in  grander  space, 
The  maidens  gather'd  strength  and  grace 

And  presence,  lordlier  than  before  ; 

And  I  myself,  who  sat  apart 

And  watch'd  them,  wax'd  in  every  limb  ; 

I  felt  the  thews  of  Anakim, 
The  pulses  of  a  Titan's  heart; 


As  one  would  sing  the  death  of  war, 
And  one  would  chant  the  history 
Of  that  great  race,  which  is  to  be, 

And  one  the  shaping  of  a  star ; 

Until  the  forward-creeping  tides 
Began  to  foam,  and  we  to  draw, 
From  deep  to  deep,  to  where  we  saw 

A  great  ship  lift  her  shining  sides. 

The  man  we  loved  was  there  on  deck, 
But  thrice  as  large  as  man  he  bent 
To  greet  us.    Up  the  side  I  went, 

And  fell  in  silence  on  his  iieck : 

Whereat  those  maidens  with  one  mind 
Bewail'd  their  lot ;  I  did  them  wrong : 
"  We  served  thee  here,"  they  said,  "  so  long, 

And  wilt  thou  leave  us  now  behind  ?" 

So  rapt  I  was,  they  could  not  win 

An  answer  from  my  lips,  but  he 

Eeplying,  "Enter  likewise  ye 
And  go  with  us:"  they  enter'd  in. 

And  while  the  wind  began  to  sweep 
A  music  out  of  sheet  and  shroud, 
We  steer'd  her  toward  a  crimson  cloud 

That  landlike  slept  along  the  deep. 

cm. 

THE  time  draws  near  the  birth  of  Christ : 
The  moon  is  hid,  the  night  is  still ; 
A  single  church  below  the  hill 

Is  pealing,  folded  in  the  mist. 

A  single  peal  of  bells  below, 
That  wakens  at  this  hour  of  rest 
A  single  murmur  in  the  breast, 

That  these  are  not  the  bells  I  know. 

Like  strangers'  voices  here  they  sound, 
In  lands  where  not  a  memory  strays, 
Nor  landmark  breathes  of  other  days, 

But  all  is  new  nnhallow'd  ground. 

CIV. 

THIS  holly  by  the  cottage-eave, 
To-night,  ungather'd,  shall  it  stand : 
We  live  within  the  stranger's  land, 

And  strangely  falls  our  Christmas-eve. 

Our  father's  dust  is  left  alone 

And  silent  under  other  snows ; 

There  in  due  time  the  woodbine  blows, 
The  violet  comes,  but  we  are  gone. 

No  more  shall  wayward  grief  abuse 
The  genial  hour  with  mask  and  mime ; 
For  change  of  place,  like  growth  of  time, 

Has  broke  the  bond  of  dying  use. 

Let  cares  that  petty  shadows  cast, 
By  which  our  lives  are  chiefly  proved, 
A  little  spare  the  night  I  loved, 

And  hold  it  solemn  to  the  past. 

But  let  no  footstep  beat  the  floor, 
Nor  bowl  of  wassail  mantle  warm  ; 
For  who  would  keep  an  ancient  form 

Thro'  which  the  spirit  breathes  no  more? 

Be  neither  song,  nor  game,  nor  feast ; 

Nor  harp  be  touch'd,  nor  flute  be  blown ; 

No  dance,  no  motion,  save  alone 
What  lightens  in  the  lucid  east 


124 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


Of  rising  worlds  by  yonder  wood. 

Long  sleeps  the  summer  in  the  seed; 

Run  out  your  measured  arcs,  and  lead 
The  closing  cycle  rich  in  good. 

CV. 

RING  out  wild  bells  to  the  wild  sky, 
The  flying  cloud,  the  frosty  light : 
The  year  is  dying  in  the  night ; . 

Ring  out,  wild  bells,  and  let  him  die. 

Ring  out  the  old,  ring  in  the  new, 
Ring,  happy  bells,  across  the  snow: 
The  year  is  going,  let  him  go ; 

Ring  out  the  false,  ring  in  the  true. 

Ring  out  the  grief  that  saps  the  mind, 
For  those  that  here  we  see  no  more ; 
Ring  out  the  feud  of  rich  and  poor, 

Ring  in  redress  to  all  mankind. 

Ring  out  a  slowly  dying  cause, 
And  ancient  forms  of  party  strife ; 
Ring  in  the  nobler  modes  of  life, 

With  sweeter  manners,  purer  laws. 

Ring  out  the  want,  the  care,  the  sin, 
The  faithless  coldness  of  the  times ; 
Ring  out,  ring  out  my  mournful  rhymes, 

But  ring  the  fuller  minstrel  in. 

Ring  out  false  pride  in  place  and  blood, 

The  civic  elander  and  the  spite ; 

Ring  in  the  love  of  truth  and  right, 
Ring  in  the  common  love  of  good. 

Ring  out  old  shapes  of  foul  disease ; 

Ring  out  the  narrowing  lust  of  gold ; 

Ring  out  the  thousand  wars  of  old, 
Ring  in  the  thousand  years  of  peace. 

Ring  in  the  valiant  man  and  free, 
The  larger  heart,  the  kindlier  hand  ; 
Ring  out  the  darkness  of  the  land, 

Ring  in  the  Christ  that  is  to  be. 

CVL 

IT  is  the  day  when  he  was  born, 

A  bitter  day  that  early  sank 

Behind  a  purple-frosty  bank 
Of  vapor,  leaving  night  forlorn. 

The  time  admits  not  flowers  or  leaves 
To  deck  the  banquet  Fiercely  flies 
The  blast  of  North  and  East,  and  ice 

Makes  daggers  at  the  sharpen'd  eaves, 

And  bristles  all  the  brakes  and  thorns 
To  yon  hard  crescent,  as  she  hangs 
Above  the  wood  which  grides  and  clangs 

Its  leafless  ribs  and  iron  b^rns 

Together,  in  the  drifts  that  pass 

To  darken  on  the  rolling  brine 

That  breaks  the  coast.    But  fetch  the  wine, 
Arrange  the  board  and  brim  the  glass; 

Bring  in  great  logs  and  let  them  lie, 

To  make  a  solid  core  of  heat ; 

Be  cheerful-minded,  talk  and  treat 
Of  all  things  ev'n  as  he  were  by ; 

We  keep  the  day.    With  festal  cheer, 
With  books  and  music,  surely  we 
Will  drink  to  him  whate'er  he  be, 

And  sing  the  songs  he  loved  to  hear. 


CVII. 
I  WILT,  not  shut  me  from  my  kind, 

And,  lest  I  stiffen  into  stone, 

I  will  not  eat  my  heart  alone, 
Nor  feed  with  sighs  a  passing  wind: 

What  profit  lies  in  barren  faith, 
And  vacant  yearning,  tho'  with  might 
To  scale  the  heaven's  highest  height, 

Or  dive  below  the  wells  of  Death  ? 

What  find  I  in  the  highest  place, 
But  mine  own  phantom  chanting  hymns  ? 
And  on  the  depths  of  death  there  swims 

The  reflex  of  a  human  face. 

I  '11  rather  take  what  fruit  may  be 
Of  sorrow  under  human  skies : 
'T  is  held  that  sorrow  makes  us  wie», 

Whatever  wisdom  sleep  with  thee. 

CVIII. 
HEART-AFFLUENCE  in  discursive  talk 

From  household  fountains  never  dry; 

The  critic  clearness  of  an  eye, 
That  saw  thro'  all  the  Muses'  walk* 

Seraphic  intellect  and  force 

To  seize  and  throw  the  doubts  of  man ; 

Impassion'd  logic,  which  outran 
The  hearer  in  its  fiery  course; 

High  nature  amorous  of  the  good, 
But  touch'd  with  no  ascetic  gloom ; 
And  passion  pure  in  snowy  bloom 

Thro'  all  the  years  of  April  blood ; 

A  love  of  freedom  rarely  felt, 
Of  freedom  in  her  regal  seat 
Of  England ;  not  the  school-boy  heat, 

The  blind  hysterics  of  the  Celt ; 

And  manhood  fused  with  female  grace 
In  such  a  sort,  the  child  would  twine 
A  trustful  hand,  unask'd,  in  thine, 

And  find  his  comfort  in  thy  fact ; 

All  these  have  been,  and  thee  mine  eyes 
Have  look'd  on :  if  they  look'd  in  vaiu, 
My  shame  is  greater  who  remain, 

Nor  let  thy  wisdom  make  me  wise. 

CIX. 

THY  converse  drew  us  with  delight, 
The  men  of  rathe  and  riper  years : 
The  feeble  soul,  a  haunt  of  fears, 

Forgot  his  weakness  in  thy  sight. 

On  thee  the  loyal-hearted  hung, 
The  proud  was  half  disarm'd  of  pride, 
Nor  cared  the  serpent  at  thy  side 

To  flicker  witMhis  double  tongue. 

The  stern  were  mild  when  thou  wert  by, 
The  flippant  put  himself  to  school 
And  heard  thee,  and  the  brazen  fool 

Was  soften'd,  and  he  knew  not  why ; 

While  I,  thy  dearest,  sat  apart, 
And  felt  thy  triumph  was  as  mine ; 
And  loved  them  more,  that  they  were  thine, 

The  graceful  tact,  the  Christian  art; 

Not  mine  the  sweetness  or  the  skill 
But  mine  the  love  that  will  not  tire, 
And,  born  of  love,  the  vague  desire 

That  spurs  an  imitative  will. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


12.-, 


ex. 

THE  churl  in  spirit,  «p  or  down 
Along  the  scale  of  ranks,  thro'  all, 
To  him  who  grasps  a  golden  ball, 

By  blood  a  king,  at  heart  a  clown ; 

The  churl  in  spirit,  howe'er  he  veil 
His  want  in  forms  for  fashion's  sake, 
Will  let  his  coltish  nature  break 

At  seasons  thro'  the  gilded  pale: 

For  who  can  always  act  ?  but  he, 
To  whom  a  thousand  memories  call, 
Not  being  less  but  more  than  all 

The  gentleness  he  seem'd  to  be, 

Best  seem'd  the  thing  he  was,  and  joiu'd 
Each  office  of  the  social  hour 
To  noble  manners,  as  the  flower 

And  native  growth  of  noble  mind ; 

Nor  ever  narrowness  or  spite, 
Or  villain  fancy  fleeting  by, 
Drew  in  the  expression  of  an  eye, 

Where  God  and  Nature  met  iu  light ; 


\ 


And  thus  he  bore  without  abuse 
The  grand  old  name  of  gentleman, 
Defamed  by  every  charlatan, 

And  soil'd  with  all  ignoble  use. 

CXI. 
HIGH  wisdom  holds  my  wisdom  less, 

That  I,  who  gaze  with  temperate  eyes 

On  glorious  insufficiencies, 
Set  light  by  narrower  perfectness. 

But  thou,  that  flllest  all  the  room 
Of  all  my  love,  art  reason  why 
I  seem  to  cast  a  careless  eye 

On  souls,  the  lesser  lords  of  doom. 

For  what  wert  thou  ?  some  novel  power 
Sprang  up  forever  at  a  touch, 
And  hope  could  never  hope  too  much, 

In  watching  thee  from  hour  to  hour, 

Large  elements  in  order  brought, 
And  tracts  of  calm  from  tempest  made, 
And  world-wide  fluctuation  sway'd 

In  vassal  tides  that  follow'd  thought. 

•  CXII. 

'T  is  held  that  sorrow  makes  us  wise : 
Yet  how  much  wisdom  sleeps  with  thee 
Which  not  alone  had  guided  me, 

But  served  the  seasons  that  may  rise ; 

For  can  I  doubt  who  knew  thee  keen 
In  intellect,  with  force  and  skill 
To  strive,  to  fashion,  to  fulfil— 

I  doubt  not  what  thou  wonldst  have  been: 

A  life  in  civic  action  warm, 
A  soul  on  highest  mission  sent, 
A  potent  voice  of  Parliament, 

A  pillar  steadfast  in  the  storm, 

Should  licensed  boldness  gather  force, 
Becoming,  when  the  time  has  birth, 
A  lever  to  uplift  the  earth 

And  roll  it  in  another  course, 

With  thousand  shocks  that  come  and  go, 
With  agonies,  with  energies, 
With  overthrowings,  and  with  cries, 

And  undulations  to  and  fro. 


CXIII. 

WHO  loves  not  Knowledge  ?    Who  shall  rail 
Against  her  beauty  ?    May  she  mix 
With  men  and  prosper !    Who  shall  fix 

Her  pillars?    Let  her  work  prevail. 

But  on  her  forehead  sits  a  fire: 
She  sets  her  forward  countenance 
And  leaps  into  the  future  chance, 

Submitting  all  things  to  desire. 

Half-grown  as  yet,  a  child,  and  rain, 
She  cannot  fight  the  fear  of  death. 
What  is  she,  cut  from  love  and  faith. 

But  some  wild  Pallas  from  the  brain 

Of  Demons  ?  fiery-hot  to  burst 
All  barriers  in  her  onward  race 
For  power.    Let  her  know  her  place ; 

She  is  the  second,  not  the  first. 

A  higher  hand  must  make  her  mild, 
If  all  be  not  in  vain :  and  guide 
Her  footsteps,  moving  side  by  side 

With  wisdom,  like  the  younger  child: 

For  she  is  earthly  of  the  mind, 
But  Wisdom  heavenly  of  the  soul. 
O  friend,  who  earnest  to  thy  goal 

So  early,  leaving  me  behind, 

I  would  the  great  world  grew  like  thee, 
Who  grewest  not  alone  in  power 
And  knowledge,  but  by  year  and  hour 

In  reverence  and  in  charity. 

CXIV. 

Now  fades  the  last  long  streak  of  snow, 
Now  bourgeons  every  maze  of  quick 
About  the  flowering  squares,  and  thick 

By  ashen  roots  the  violets  blow. 

Now  rings  the  woodland  loud  and  long, 
The  distance  takes  a  lovelier  hue, 
And  drown'd  in  yonder  living  blue 

The  lark  becomes  a  sightless  song. 

Now  dance  the  lights  on  lawn  and  lea, 
The  flocks  are  whiter  down  the  vale, 
And  milkier  every  milky  sail 

On  winding  stream  or  distant  sea; 

Where  now  the  seamew  pipes,  or  dives 
In  yonder  gleaming  green,  and  fly 
The  happy  birds,  that  change  their  sky 

To  build  and  brood ;  that  live  their  lives 

From  land  to  land  ;  and  in  my  breast 
Spring  wakens  too ;  and  my  regret 
Becomes  an  April  violet, 

And  buds  and  blossoms  like  the  rest 

cxv. 

Is  it,  then,  regret  for  buried  time 
That  keenlier  iu  sweet  April  wakes, 
And  meets  the  year,  and  gives  and  takes 

The  colors  of  the  crescent  prime  ? 

Not  all :  the  songs,  the  stirring  air, 
The  life  re-orient  out  of  dust, 
Cry  thro'  the  sense  to  hearten  trust 

In  that  which  made  the  world  so  fair. 

Not  all  regret :  the  face  will  shine 

Upon  me,  while  I  muse  alone; 

And  that  dear  voice  I  once  have  known 
Still  speak  to  me  of  me  and  mine: 


126 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


Yet  less  of  sorrow  lives  in  me 
For  days  of  happy  commune  dead  ; 
Less  yearning  for  the  friendship  fled, 

Than  some  strong  bond  which  is  to  be. 

CXVL 

0  DAYS  and  hours,  your  work  is  this, 
To  hold  me  from  my  proper  place, 
A  little  while  from  his  embrace, 

For  fuller  gain  of  after  bliss ; 

That  out  of  distance  might  ensue 
Desire  ol  nearness  doubly  sweet : 
And  unto  meeting  when  we  meet, 

Delight  a  hundred-fold  accrue, 

For  every  grain  of  sand  that  runs, 
And  every  span  of  shade  that  steals, 
And  every  kiss  of  toothed  wheels, 

And  all  the  courses  of  the  suns. 

CXVII. 

CONTEMPLATE  all  this  work  of  Time, 

The  giant  laboring  in  his  youth ; 

Nor  dream  of  human  love  and  truth, 
As  dying  Nature's  earth  and  lime ; 

But  trust  that  those  we  call  the  dead 

Are  breathers  of  an  ampler  day, 

Forever  nobler  eiids.    They  say, 
The  solid  earth  whereon  we  tread 

In  tracts  of  fluent  heat  began, 
And  grew  to  seeming-random  forms, 
The  seeming  prey  of  cyclic  storms, 

Till  at  the  last  arose  the  man ; 

Who  throve  and  branch'd  from  clime  to  clime 

The  herald  of  a  higher  race, 

And  of  himself  in  higher  place 
If  so  he  type  this  work  of  time 

Within  himself,  from  more  to  more ; 
Or,  crown'd  with  attributes  of  woe 
Like  glories,  move  his  course,  and  show 

That  life  is  not  as  idle  ore, 

But  iron  dug  from  central  gloom, 
And  heated  hot  with  burning  fears, 
And  dipt  in  baths  of  hissing  tears, 

And  batter'd  with  the  shocks  of  doom 

To  shape  and  use.    Arise  and  fly 
The  reeling  Faun,  the  sensual  feast ; 
Move  upward,  working  out  the  beast, 

And  let  the  ape  and  tiger  die. 

CXVIIL 

Doous,  where  my  heart  was  used  to  beat 
So  quickly,  not  as  one  that  weeps 
I  come  once  more :  the  city  sleeps ; 

1  smell  the  meadow  in  the  street; 

I  hear  a  chirp  of  birds ;  I  see 
Betwixt  the  black  fronts  long-withdrawn 
A  light-blue  lane  of  early  dawn,    '- 

And  think  of  early  days  and  thee, 

And  bless  thee,  for  thy  lips  are  bland, 
And  bright  the  friendship  of  thine  eye : 
And  in  my  thoughts  with  scarce  a  sigh      • 

I  take  the  pressure  of  thine  hand. 

CXIX. 

I  TRUST  I  have  not  wasted  breath; 
I  think  we  are  not  wholly  brain, 
Magnetic  mockeries ;  not  in  vain, 

Like  Paul  with  beasts,  I  fought  with  Death ; 


Not  only  cunning  casts  in  clay : 
Let  Science  prove  we  are,  and  then 
What  matters  Science  unto  men, 

At  least  to  me  ?    I  would  not  stay. 

Let  him,  the  wiser  man  who  springs 
Hereafter,  up  from  childhood  shape 
His  action,  like  the  greater  ape, 

But  I  was  born  to  other  things. 

cxx. 

SAD  Hesper  o'er  the  buried  sun, 
And  ready,  thou,  to  die  with  him, 
Thou  watchest  all  things  ever  dim 

And  dimmer,  and  a  glory  done : 

The  team  is  loosen'd  from  the  wain, 
The  boat  is  drawn  upon  the  shore ; 
Thou  listenest  to  the  closing  door, 

And  life  is  darken'd  in  the  brain. 

Bright  Phosphor,  fresher  for  the  night, 
By  thee  the  world's  great  work  is  heard 
Beginning,  and  the  wakeful  bird: 

Behind  thee  comes  the  greater  light  : 

The  market  boat  is  on  the  stream, 
And  voices  hail  it  from  the  brink; 
Thou  hear'st  the  village  hammer  clink, 

And  see'st  the  moving  of  the  team. 

Sweet  Hesper-Phosphor,  double  name 
For  what  is  one,  the  first,  the  last, 
Thou,  like  my  present  and  my  past, 

Thy  place  is  changed ;  thou  art  the  same. 

CXXI. 

O,  WAST  thou  with  me,  dearest,  then, 
WThile  I  rose  up  against  my  doom, 
And  yearn'd  to  burst  the  folded  gloom, 

To  bare  the  eternal  Heavens  again, 

To  feel  once  more,  in  placid  awe, 

The  strong  imagination  roll 

A  sphere  of  stars  about  my  soul, 
In  all  her  motion  one  with  law. 

If  thou  wert  with  me,  and  the  grave 
Divide  us  not,  be  with  me  now, 
And  enter  in  at  breast  and  brow, 

Till  all  my  blood,  a  fuller  wave, 

Be  quicken'd  with  a  livelier  breath, 

And  like  an  inconsiderate  boy, 

As  in  the  former  flash  of  joy, 
I  slip  the  thoughts  of  life  and  death ; 

And  all  the  breeze  of  Fancy  blows, 
And  every  dew-drop  paints  a  bow, 
The  wizard  lightnings  deeply  glow, 

And  every  thought  breaks  out  a  rose. 

CXXII. 

TIIEKE  rolls  the  deep  where  grew  the  tree. 

O  earth,  what  changes  thou  hast  seen  ! 

There  where  the1  long  street  roars,  hath  been 
The  stillness  of  the  central  sea. 

The  hills  are  shadows,  and  they  flow 
From  form  to  form,  and  nothing  stands  ; 
They  melt  like  mist,  the  solid  lands, 

Like  clouds  they  shape  themselves  and  go. 

But  in  my  spirit  will  I  dwell, 

And  dream  my  dream,  and  hold  it-  true; 

For  tho'  my  lips  may  breathe  adieu, 
I  cannot  think  the  thing  farewell. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


127 


CXXIII. 

THAT  which  we  dare  invoke  to  bless; 

Oar  dearest  faith ;  our  ghastliest  doubt ; 

He,  They,  One,  All ;  within,  without ; 
The  Power  in  darkness  whom  we  guess ; 

I  found  Him  not  in  world  or  snn, 
Or  eagle's  wing,  or  insect's  eye: 
Nor  thro'  the  questions  men  may  try, 

The  petty  cobwebs  we  have  spun: 

If  e'er,  when  faith  had  fall'n  asleep, 
I  heard  a  voice,  "Believe  no  more," 
And  heard  an  ever-breakiug  shore 

That  tumbled  in  the  Godless  deep ; 

A  warmth  within  the  breast  would  melt 
The  freezing  reason's  colder  part, 
And  like  a  man  in  wrath  the  heart 

Stood  up  and  answer'd,  "I  have  felt." 

No,  like  a  child  in  doubt  and  fear: 
But  that  blind  clamor  made  me  wise: 
Then  was  I  as  a  child  that  cries, 

But,  crying,  knows  his  father  near ; 

And  what  I  am  beheld  again 
What  is,  and  no  man  understands ; 
And  out  of  darkness  came  the  hands 

That  reach  thro'  nature,  moulding  men. 

CXXIV. 

WHATEVER  I  have  said  or  sung, 
Some  bitter  notes  my  harp  would  give, 
Yea,  tho'  there  often  seem'd  to  live 

A  contradiction  on  the  tongue, 

Yet  Hope  had  never  lost  her  youth; 

She  did  but  look  thro'  dimmer  eyes; 

Or  Love  but  play'd  with  gracious  lies 
Because  he  felt  so  flx'd  in  truth: 

And  if  the  song  were  full  of  care, 
He  breathed  the  spirit  of  the  song; 
And  if  the  words  were  sweet  and  strong, 

He  set  his  royal  signet  there; 

Abiding  with  me  till  I  sail 
To  seek  thee  on  the  mystic  deeps, 
And  this  electric  force,  that  keeps 

A  thousand  pulses  dancing,  fail. 

cxxv. 

LOVE  is  and  was  my  Lord  and  King, 
And  in  his  presence  I  attend 
To  hear  the  tidings  of  my  friend, 

Which  every  hour  his  couriers  bring. 

Love  is  and  was  my  King  and  Lord, 
And  will  be,  tho'  as  yet  I  keep 
Within  his  court  on  earth,  and  sleep 

Encompass'd  by  his  faithful  guard, 

And  hear  at  times  a  sentinel 
Who  moves  about  from  place  to  place, 
And  whispers  to  the  worlds  of  space, 

In  the  deep  night,  that  all  is  well. 

CXXVI. 

AND  all  is  well,  tho'  faith  and  form 
Be  sunder'd  in  the  night  of  fear : 
Well  roars  the  storm  to  those  that  hear 

A  deeper  voice  across  the  storm, 

Proclaiming  social  truth  shall  spread, 
And  justice,  ev'n  tho'  thrice  again 
The  red  fool-fury  of  the  Seine 

Should  pile  her  barricades  with  dead. 


But  ill  for  him  that  wears  a  crown, 
And  him,  the  lazar,  in  his  rags : 
They  tremble,  the  sustaining  crags; 

The  spires  of  ice  are  toppled  down, 

And  molten  up,  and  roar  in  flood ; 
The  fortress  crashes  from  on  high, 
The  brute  earth  lightens  to  the  sky, 

And  the  great  JEon  sinks  in  blood, 

And  compass'd  by  the  fires  of  Hell; 
While  thou,  dear  spirit,  happy  star, 
O'erlook'st  the  tumult  from  afar, 

And  smiles  t,  knowing  all  is  welL 

CXXVII. 

THE  love  that  rose  on  stronger  wings, 
Unpalsied  when  we  met  with  Death, 
Is  comrade  of  the  lesser  faith 

That  sees  the  course  of  human  things. 

No  donbt  vast  eddies  in  the  flood 
Of  onward  time  shall  yet  be  made, 
And  throned  races  may  degrade; 

Yet,  O  ye  mysteries  of  good, 

Wild  Hours  that  fly  with  Hope  and  Fear, 
If  all  your  office  had  to  do 
With  old  results  that  look  like  new; 

If  this  were  all  your  mission  here, 

To  draw,  to  sheathe  a  useless  sword, 
To  fool  the  crowd  with  glorious  lies, 
To  cleave  a  creed  in  sects  aiid  cries, 

To  change  the  bearing  of  a  word, 

To  shift  an  arbitrary  power, 
To  cramp  the  student  at  his  desk, 
To  make  old  bareness  picturesque 

And  tuft  with  grass  a  feudal  tower; 

Why  then  my  scorn  might  well  descend 
On  you  and  yours.    I  see  in  part 
That  all,  as  in  some  piece  of  art, 

Is  toil  cooperant  to  an  end. 

CXXVIII. 

DEAR  friend,  far  off,  my  lost  desire, 
So  far,  so  near  in  woe  and  weal ; 

0  loved  the  most,  when  most  I  feel 
There  is  a  lower  and  a  higher ; 

Known  and  unknown :  human,  divine ; 

Sweet  human  hand  and  lips  and  eye ; 

Dear  heavenly  friend  that  canst  not  die, 
Mine,  mine,  forever,  ever  mine ; 

Strange  friend,  past,  present,  and  to  be; 

Love  deeplier,  darklier  understood ; 

Behold,  I  dream  a  dream  of  good, 
And  mingle  all  the  world  with  thee. 

CXXIX. 

TIIT  voice  is  on  the  rolling  air; 

1  hear  thee  where  the  waters  run; 
Thou  standest  in  the  rising  sun, 

And  in  the  setting  thou  art  fair. 

What  art  thou  then  ?    I  cannot  guess  i 
But  tho'  I  seem  in  star  and  flower 
To  feel  thee  some  diffusive  power, 

I  do  not  therefore  love  thee  less : 

My  love  involves  the  love  before ; 

My  love  is  vaster  passion  now; 

Tho'  mix'd  with  God  and  Nature  thou, 
I  seem  to  love  thee  more  and  more. 


MEMORIAM. 


Far  off  thou  art,  but  ever  nigh ; 

I  have  thee  still,  and  I  rejoice ; 

I  prosper,  circled  with  thy  voice; 
I  shall  not  lose  thee  tho'  I  die. 

cxxx. 

O  LIVING  will  that  shalt  endure 
When  all  that  seems  shall  suffer  shock, 
Rise  in  the  spiritual  rock, 

Flow  thro'  our  deeds  and  make  them  pure, 

That  we  may  lift  from  out  of  dust 
A  voice  as  unto  him  that  hears, 
A  cry  above  the  conquer'd  years 

To  one  that  with  us  works,  and  trusts, 

With  faith  that  comes  of  self-control, 
The  truths  that  never  can  be  proved 
Until  we  close  with  all  we  loved, 

And  all  we  flow  from,  soul  in  soul. 


O  TRUE  and  tried,  so  well  and  long, 

Demand  not  thou  a  marriage  lay; 

In  that  it  is  thy  marriage  day 
Is  music  more  than  any  song. 

Nor  have  I  felt  so  much  of  bliss 
Since  first  he  told  me  that  he  loved 
A  daughter  of  our  house  ;  nor  proved 

Since  that  dark  day  a  day  like  this ; 

Tho'  I  since  then  have  number'd  o'er 
Some  thrice  three  years:  they  went  and  came, 
Remade  the  blood  and  changed  the  frame, 

And  yet  is  love  not  less,  but  more; 

No  longer  caring  to  embalm 

In  dying  songs  a  dead  regret, 

But  like  a  statue  solid-set, 
And  moulded  in  colossal  calm. 

Regret  is  dead,  but  love  is  more 
Than  in  the  summers  that  are  flown, 
For  I  myself  with  these  have  grown 

To  something  greater  than  before ; 

Which  makes  appear  the  songs  I  made 
As  echoes  out  of  weaker  times, 
As  half  but  idle  brawling  rhymes, 

The  sport  of  random  sun  and  shade. 

But  where  is  she,  the  bridal  flower, 
That  must  be  made  a  wife  ere  noon  ? 
She  enters,  glowing  like  the  moon 

Of  Eden  on  its  bridal  bower : 

On  me  she  bends  her  blissful  eyes, 
And  then  on  thee  ;  they  meet  thy  look 
And  brighten  like  the  star  that  shook 

Betwixt  the  palms  of  paradise. 

O  when  her  life  was  yet  in  bud, 

He  too  foretold  the  perfect  rose. 

For  thee  she  grew,  for  thee  she  grows 
Forever,  and  as  fair  as  good. 

And  thon  art  worthy ;  full  of  power ; 
As  gentle  ;  liberal-minded,  great, 
Consistent;  wearing  all  that  weight 

Of  learning  lightly  like  a  flower. 

But  now  set  out:  the  noon  is  near, 
And  I  must  give  away  the  bride; 
She  fears  not,  or  with  thee  beside 

And  me  behind  her,  will  not  fear; 


For  I  that  danced  her  on  my  knee, 
That  watch'd  her  on  her  nurse's  arm, 
That  shielded  all  her  life  from  harm, 

At  last  must  part  with  her  to  thee; 

Now  waiting  to  be  made  a  wife, 
Her  feet,  my  darling,  on  the  dead ; 
Their  pensive  tablets  round  her  head. 

And  the  most  living  words  of  life 

Breathed  in  her  ear.    The  ring  is  on, 
The  "  wilt  thou,"  answer'd,  and  again 
The  "wilt  thou"  ask'd  till  out  of  twain 

Her  sweet  "  I  will "  has  made  ye  one. 

Now  sign  your  names,  which  shall  be  read, 
Mute  symbols  of  a  joyful  morn, 
By  village  eyes  as  yet  unborn ; 

The  names  are  sign'd,  and  overhead 

Begins  the  clash  and  clang  that  tells 
The  joy  to  every  wandering  breeze  ; 
The  blind  wall  rocks,  and  on  the  trees 

The  dead  leaf  trembles  to  the  bells. 

O  happy  hour,  and  happier  hours 
Await  them.    Many  a  merry  face 
Salutes  them— maidens  of  the  place, 

That  pelt  us  in  the  porch  with  flowers. 

O  happy  hour,  behold  the  bride 
With  him  to  whom -her  hand  I  gave. 
They  leave  the  porch,  they  pass  the  grars 

That  has  to-day  its  sunny  side. 

To-day  the  grave  is  bright  for  me, 
For  them  the  light  of  life  increased, 
Who  stay  to  share  the  morning  feast, 

Who  rest  to-night  beside  the  sea. 

Let  all  my  genial  spirits  advance 
To  meet  and  greet  a  whiter  sun; 
My  drooping  memory  will  not  shun 

The  foaming  grape  of  eastern  France. 

It  circles  round,  and  fancy  plays, 
And  hearts  are  warm'd,  and  faces  blooia, 
As  drinking  health  to  bride  and  groom 

We  wish  them  store  of  happy  days. 

Nor  count  me  all  to  blame  if  I 
Conjecture  of  a  stiller  guest, 
Perchance,  perchance,  among  the  rest, 

And,  tho'  in  silence,  wishing  joy. 

But  they  must  go,  the  time  draws  on, 
And  those  white-favor'd  horses  wait ; 
They  rise,  but  linger;  it  is  late; 

Farewell,  we  kiss,  and  they  are  gon«. 

A  shade  falls  on  us  like  the  dark 
From  little  cloudlets  on  the  grass, 
But  sweeps  away  as  out  we  pass 

To  range  the  woods,  to  roam  the  park, 

Discussing  how  their  courtship  grew, 
And  talk  of  others  that  are  wed, 
And  how  she  look'd,  and  what  he  said. 

And  back  we  come  at  fall  of  dew. 

Again  the  feast,  the  speech,  the  glee, 
The  shade  of  passing  thought,  the  wealth 
Of  words  and  wit,  the  double  health, 

The  crowning  cup,  the  three-times-three, 


MAUD. 


129 


And  last  the  dance; — till  I  retire: 
Dumb  is  that  tower  which  spake  so  lond, 
And  high  in  heaven  the  streaming  cloud, 

And  on  the  downs  a  rising  fire ; 

And  rise,  O  moon,  from  yonder  down, 
Till  over  down  and  over  dale 
All  night  the  shining  vapor  sail 

And  pass  the  silent-lighted  town, 

The  white-faced  halls,  the  glancing  rills, 
And  catch  at  every  mountain  head, 
And  o'er  the  friths  that  branch  and  spread 

Their  sleeping  silver  thro'  the  hills ; 

And  touch  with  shade  the  bridal  doors, 
With  tender  gloom  the  roof,  the  wall ; 
And  breaking  let  the  splendor  fall 

To  spangle  all  the  happy  shores 

By  which  they  rest,  and  ocean  sounds, 
And,  star  and  system  rolling  past, 
A  soul  shall  draw  from  out  the  vast 

And  strike  his  being  into  bounds, 


And,  moved  thro'  life  of  lower  phase, 
Result  in  man,  be  born  and  think, 
And  act  and  love,  a  closer  link 

Betwixt  us  and  the  crowning  race 

Of  those  that,  eye  to  eye,  shall  look 
On  knowledge;  under  whose  command 
Is  Earth  and  Earth's,  and  in  1heir  hand 

Is  Nature  like  an  open  book ; 

No  longer  half-akin  to  brute, 
For  all  we  thought  and  loved  and  did, 
And  hoped,  and  suffer'd,  is  but  seed 

Of  what  in  them  is  flower  and  fruit; 

Whereof  the  man,  that  with  me  trod 
This  planet,  was  a  noble  type 
Appearing  ere  the  times  were  ripe, 

That  friend  of  mine  who  lives  in  God, 

That  God,  which  ever  lives  and  loves, 
One  God,  one  law,  one  element, 
And  one  far-off  divine  event, 

To'  which  the  whole  creation  moves. 


MAUD,  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


MAUD, 
i. 

i. 

I  HATE  the  dreadful  hollow  behind  the  little  wood, 
Its  lips  in  the  field  above  are  dabbled  with  blood-red  heath, 
The  red-ribb'd  ledges  drip  with  a  silent  horror  of  blood, 
And  Echo  there,  whatever  is  ask'd  her,  answers  "  Death," 

2. 

For  there  in  the  ghastly  pit  long  since  a  body  was  found, 
His  who  had  given  me  life— O  father  !  O  God  !  was  it  well  ? — 
Mangled,  and  flatten'd,  and  crush'd,  and  dinted  into  the  ground: 
There  yet  lies  the  rock  that  fell  with  him  when  he  fell. 

3. 

Did  he  fling  himself  down  ?  who  knows  ?  for  a  vast  speculation  had  fail'd, 
And  ever  he  mutter'd  and  madden'd,  and  ever  wann'd  with  despair, 
And  out  he  walk'd  when  the  wind  like  a  broken  worldling  wail'd, 
And  the  flying  gold  of  the  ruin'd  woodlands  drove  thro'  the  air. 

4. 

I  remember  the  time,  for  the  roots  of  my  hair  were  stirr'd 
By  a  shuffled  step,  by  a  dead  weight  trail'd,  by  a  whisper'd  fright, 
And  my  pulses  closed  their  gates  with  a  shock  on  my  heart  as  I  heard 
The  shrill-edged  shriek  of  a  mother  divide  the  shuddering  night. 


Villany  somewhere '.  whose  ?    One  says,  we  are  villains  all. 
Not  he :  his  honest  fame  should  at  least  by  me  be  maintain'd : 
But  that  old  man,  now  lord  of  the  broad  estate  and  the  Hall, 
Dropt  off  gorged  from  a  scheme  that  had  left  us  flaccid  and  drain'd. 

6. 

Why  do  they  prate  of  the  blessings  of  Peace  ?  we  have  made  them  a  curst, 

Pickpockets,  each  hand  lusting  for  all  that  is  not  its  own ; 

And  lust  of  gain,  in  the  spirit  of  Cain,  is  it  better  or  worse 

Than  the  heart  of  the  citizen  hissing  in  war  on  his  own  hearthstone  ? 

9 


130  MAUD. 

7. 

But  these  are  the  days  of  advance,  the  works  of  the  men  of  mind, 
When  who  but  a  fool  would  have  faith  in  a  tradesman's  ware  or  his  word? 
Is  it  peace  or  war  ?    Civil  war,  as  I  think,  and  that  of  a  kind 
The  viler,  as  underhand,  not  openly  bearing  the  sword. 

8. 

Sooner  or  later  I  too  may  passively  take  the  print 

Of  the  golden  age — why  not  ?    I  have  neither  hope  nor  trust ; 

May  make  my  heart  as  a  millstone,  set  my  face  as  a  flint, 

Cheat  and  be  cheated,  and  die :  who  knows  ?  we  are  ashes  and  dust. 


Peace  sitting  under  her  olive,  and  slurring  the  days  gone  by, 
When  the  poor  are  hovell'd  and  hustled  together,  each  sex,  like  swine, 
When  only  the  ledger  lives,  and  when  only  not  all  men  lie ; 
Peace  in  her  vineyard — yes ! — but  a  company  forges  the  wine. 

10. 

And  the  vitriol  madness  flushes  up  in  the  ruffian's  head, 
Till  the  filthy  by-lane  rings  to  the  yell  of  the  trampled  wife, 
While  chalk  and  alum  and  plaster  are  sold  to  the  poor  for  bread, 
And  the  spirit  of  murder  works  in  the  very  means  of  life. 

11. 

And  Sleep  must  lie  down  arm'd,  for  the  villanous  centre-bits 
Grind  on  the  wakeful  ear  in  the  hush  of  the  moonless  nights, 
While  another  is  cheating  the  sick  of  a  few  last  gasps,  as  he  sits 
To  pestle  a  poisou'd  poison  behind  his  crimson  lights. 

12. 

When  a  Mammonite  mother  kills  her  babe  for  a  burial  fee, 
And  Timour-Mammon  grins  on  a  pile  of  children's  bones, 
Is  it  peace  or  war?  better,  war!  loud  war  by  land  and  by  sea. 
War  with  a  thousand  battles,  and  shaking  a  hundred  thrones. 

13. 

For  I  trust  if  an  enemy's  fleet  came  yonder  round  by  the  hill, 
And  the  rushing  battle-bolt  sang  from  the  three-decker  out  of  the  foam, 
That  the  smooth-faced  snub-nosed  rogue  would  leap  from  his  counter  and  till* 
And  strike,  if  he  could,  were  it  but  with  his  cheating  yardwand,  home. — 

14 

What !  am  I  raging  alone  as  my  father  raged  in  his  mood  ? 
Must  /  too  creep  to  the  hollow  and  dash  myself  down  and  die 
Rather  than  hold  by  the  law  that  I  made,  nevermore  to  brood 
On  a  horror  of  shatter'd  limbs  and  a  wretched  swindler's  lie  ? 

15. 

Would  there  be  sorrow  for  met  there  was  love  in  the  passionate  shriek, 
Love  for  the  silent  thing  that  had  made  false  haste  to  the  grave — 
Wrapt  in  a  cloak,  as  I  saw  him,  and  thought  he  would  rise  and  speak 
And  rave  at  the  lie  and  the  liar,  ah  God,  as  he  used  to  rave. 

16. 

I  am  sick  of  the  Hall  and  the  hill,  I  am  sick  of  the  moor  and  the  main. 
Why  should  I  stay  ?  can  a  sweeter  chance  ever  come  to  me  here  ? 
O,  having  the  nerves  of  motion  as  well  as  the  nerves  of  pain, 
Were  it  not  wise  if  I  fled  from  the  place  and  the  pit  and  the  fear  f 

17. 

There  are  workmen  up  at  the  Hall :  they  are  coming  back  from  abroad ; 
The  dark  old  place  will  be  gilt  by  the  touch  of  a  milliounaire : 
I  have  heard,  I  know  not  whence,  of  the  singular  beauty  of  Maud ; 
I  play'd  with  the  girl  when  a  child ;  she  promised  then  to  be  fair. 

18. 

Maud  with  her  venturous  climbings  and  tumbles  and  childish  escapes, 
Maud  the  delight  of  the  village,  the  ringing  joy  of  the  Hall, 
Maud  with  her  sweet  purse-mouth  when  my  father  dangled  the  grapes, 
Maud  the  beloved  of  my  mother,  the  moon-faced  darling  of  all,— 


MAUD.  131 

, — 4 , 

19. 

What  is  she  now?    My  dreams  are  bad.    She  may  bring  me  a  curse. 
No,  there  is  fatter  game  on  the  moor ;  she  will  let  me  alone. 
Thanks,  for  the  fiend  best  knows  whether  woman  or  man  be  the  worse. 
I  will  bury  myself  in  my  books,  and  the  Devil  may  pipe  to  his  own. 

II. 

LOKG  have  I  sigh'd  for  a  calm :  God  grant  I  may  find  it  at  last ! 

It  will  never  be  broken  by  Maud,  she  has  neither  savor  nor  salt, 

But  a  cold  and  clear-cut  face,  as  I  found  when  her  carriage  past, 

Perfectly  beautiful :  let  it  be  granted  her :  where  is  the  fault  ? 

All  that  I  saw  (for  her  eyes  were  downcast,  not  to  be  seen) 

Faultily  faultless,  icily  regular,  splendidly  null, 

Dead  perfection,  no  more ;  nothing  more,  if  it  had  not  been 

For  a  chance  of  travel,  a  paleness,  an  hour's  defect  of  the  rose, 

Or  an  underlip,  you  may  call  it  a  little  too  ripe,  too  full, 

Or  the  least  little  delicate  aquiline  curve  in  a  sensitive  nose, 

From  which  I  escaped  heart-free,  with  the  least  little  touch  of  spleen. 

III. 

COLI>  and  clear-cut  face,  why  come  you  so  cruelly  meek, 
Breaking  a  slumber  in  which  all  spleenful  folly  was  drown'd, 
Pale  with  the  golden  beam  of  an  eyelash  dead  on  the  cheek, 
Passionless,  pale,  cold  face,  star-sweet  on  a  gloom  profound ; 
Womanlike,  taking  revenge  too  deep  for  a  transient  wrong 
Done  but  in  thought  to  yonr  beauty,  and  ever  as  pale  as  before 
Growing  and  fading  and  growing  upon  me  without  a  sound, 
Luminous,  genriike,  ghostlike,  deathlike,  half  the  night  long 
Growing  and  fading  and  growing,  till  I  could  bear  it  no  more, 
But  arose,  and  all  by  myself  in  my  own  dark  garden  ground, 
Listening  now  to  the  tide  in  its  broad-flung  shipwrecking  roar, 
Now  to  the  scream  of  a  madden'd  beach  dragg'd  down  by  the  wave* 
Walk'd  in  a  wintry  .wind  by  a  ghastly  glimmer,  and  found 
The  shining  daffodil  dead,  and  Orion  low  in  his  grave. 

IV. 
1. 

A  MILLION  emeralds  break  from  the  ruby-budded  lime 
In  the  little  grove  where  I  sit— ah,  wherefore  cannot  I  be 
Like  things  of  the  season  gay,  like  the  bountiful  season  bland, 
When  the  far-off  sail  is  blown  by  the  breeze  of  a  softer  clime, 
Half-lost  in  the  liquid  azure  bloom  of  a  crescent  of  sea, 
The  silent  sapphire-spangled  marriage  ring  of  the  land  ? 

2. 

Below  me,  there,  is  the  village,  and  looks  how  quiet  and  small ! 
And  yet  bubbles  o'er  like  a  city,  with  gossip,  scandal,  and  spite; 
And  Jack  on  his  alehouse  bench  has  as  many  lies  as  a  Czar; 
And  here  on  the  landward  side,  by  a  red  rock,  glimmers  the  Hall ; 
And  up  in  the  high  Hall-garden  I  see  her  pass  like  a  light : 
But  sorrow  seize  me  if  ever  that  light  be  my  leading  star ! 

3. 

When  have  I  bow'd  to  her  father,  the  wrinkled  head  of  the  race  ? 

I  met  her  to-day  with  her  brother,  but  not  to  her  brother  I  bow'd ; 

I  bow'd  to  his  lady-sister  as  she  rode  by  on  the  moor; 

But  the  fire  of  a  foolish  pride  flash'd  over  her  beautiful  face. 

O  child,  you  wrong  yonr  beauty,  believe  it,  in  being  so  proud ; 

Your  father  has  wealth  well-gotten,  and  I  am  nameless  and  poor. 


I  keep  but  a  man  and  a  maid,  ever  ready  to  slander  and  steal ; 

I  know  it,  and  smile  a  hard-set  smile,  like  a  stoic,  or  like 

A  wiser  epicurean,  and  let  the  world  have  its  way: 

For  nature  is  one  with  rapine,  a  harm  no  preacher  can  heal ; 

The  Mayfly  is  torn  by  the  swallow,  the  sparrow  spear'd  by  the  shrike, 

And  the  whole  little  wood  where  I  sit  is  a  world  of  plunder  and  prey. 

5. 

We  are  puppets,  Man  in  his  pride,  and  Beauty  fair  in  her  flower ; 
Do  we  move  ourselves,  or  are  moved  by  an  unseen  hand  at  a  game 
That  pushes  us  off  from  the  board,  and  others  ever  succeed  ? 
Ah  yet,  we  cannot  be  kind  to  each  other  here  for  an  hour ; 
We  whisper,  and  hint,  and  chuckle,  and  grin  at  a  brother's  Shame; 
However  we  brave  '£  out,  we  men  are  a  little  breed. 


132 


MAUD. 


6. 

A  monstrous  eft  was  of  old  the  Lord  and  Master  of  Earth, 
For  him  did  his  high  sun  flame,  and  his  river  billowing  ran, 
And  he  felt  himself  in  his  force  to  be  Nature's  crowning  race. 
As  nine  months  go  to  the  shaping  an  infant  ripe  for  his  birth, 
So  many  a  million  of  ages  have  gone  to  the  making  of  man : 
He  now  is  first,  but  is  he  the  last  ?  is  ne  not  too  base  ? 

7. 

The  man  of  science  himself  is  fonder  of  glory,  and  vain, 
An  eye  well-practised  in  nature,  a  spirit  bounded  and  poor ; 
The  passionate  heart  of  the  poet  is  whirl'd  into  folly  and  vice. 
I  would  not  marvel  at  either,  but  keep  a  temperate  brain ; 
For  not  to  desire  or  admire,  if  a  man  could  learn  it,  were  more 
Than  to  walk  all  day  like  the  sultan  of  old  in  a  garden  of  spice. 

8. 

For  the  drift  of  the  Maker  is  dark,  an  Isis  hid  by  the  veil. 
Who  knows  the  ways  of  the  world,  how  God  will  bring  them  about? 
Our  planet  is  one,  the  suns  are  many,  the  world  is  wide. 
Shall  I  weep  if  a  Poland  fall  ?  shall  I  shriek  if  a  Hungary  fail  ? 
Or  an  infant  civilization  be  ruled  with  rod  or  with  knout? 
I  have  not  made  the  world,  and  He  that  made  it  will  guide. 


Be  mine  a  philosopher's  life  in  the  quiet  woodland  ways, 

Where  if  I  cannot  be  gay  let  a  passionless  peace  be  my  lot, 

Far-off  from  the  clamor  of  liars  belied  in  the  hubbub  of  lies ; 

From  the  long-neck'd  geese  of  the  world  that  are  ever  hissing  dispraise, 

Because  their  natures  are  little,  and,  whether  he  heed  it  or  not, 

Where  each  man  walks  With  his  head  in  a  cloud  of  poisonous  flies. 

10. 

And  most  of  all  would  I  flee  from  the  cruel  madness  of  love, 
The  honey  of  poison-flowers  and  all  the  measureless  ill. 
Ah  Maud,  you  milk-white  fawn,  you  are  all  unmeet  for  a  wife. 
Your  mother  is  mute  in  her  grave  as  her  image  in  marble  above ; 
Tour  father  is  ever  in  London,  you  wander  about  at  your  will; 
You  have  but  fed  on  the  roses,  and  lain  in  the  lilies  of  life. 


V. 


A  VOICE  by  the  cedar-tree, 

In  the  meadow  under  the  Hall ! 

She  is  singing  an  air  that  is  known  to  me, 

A  passionate  ballad  gallant  and  gay, 

A  martial  song  like  a  trumpet's  call ! 

Singing  alone  in  the  morning  of  life, 

In  the  happy  morning  of  life  and  of  May, 

Singing  of  men  that  in  battle  array, 

Ready  in  heart  and  ready  in  hand, 

March  with  banner  and  bugle  and  fife 

To  the  death,  for  their  native  laud. 

2. 

Maud  with  her  exquisite  face, 
And  wild  voice  pealing  up  to  the  sunny  sky, 
And  feet  like  sunny  gems  on  an  English  green, 
Maud  in  the  light  of  her  youth  and  her  grace, 
Singing  of  Death,  and  of  Honor  that  cannot  die, 
Till  I  well  could  weep  for  a  time  so  sordid  and  mean, 
And  myself  so  languid  and  base. 

3. 

Silence,  beautiful  voice! 

Be  still,  for  yon  only  trouble  the  mind 

With  a  joy  in  which  I  cannot  rejoice, 

A  glory  I  shall  not  find. 

Still !  I  will  hear  you  no  more, 

For  your  sweetness  hardly  leaves  me  a  choice 

But  to  move  to  the  meadow  and  fall  before 

Her  feet  on  the  meadow  grass,  and  adore, 

Not  her,  who  is  neither  courtly  nor  kind, 

Not  her,  not  her,  but  a  voice. 


VI. 
L 

MOKNINO  arises  stormy  and  pale, 

No  sun,  but  a  wannish  glare 

In  fold  upon  fold  of  hueless  cloud, 

And  the  budded  peaks  of  the  wood  are  bow'd 

Caught  and  cufTd  by  the  gale : 

I  had  fancied  it  would  be  fair. 

2. 

Whom  but  Maud  should  I  meet 

Last  night,  when  the  sunset  burn'd 

On  the  blossom'd  gable-ends 

At  the  head  of  the  village  street, 

Whom  but  Maud  should  I  meet? 

And  she  touch'd  my  hand  with  a  smile  so  sweet 

She  made  me  divine  amends 

For  a  courtesy  not  return'd. 


And  thus  a  delicate  spark 

Of  glowing  and  growing  light 

Thro'  the  livelong  hours  of  the  dark 

Kept  itself  warm  in  the  heart  of  my  dreams, 

Ready  to  burst  in  a  color'd  flame ; 

Till  at  last,  when  the  morning  came 

In  a  cloud,  it  faded,  and  seems 

But  an  ashen-gray  delight. 

4. 

What  if  with  her  sunny  hair, 
And  smile  as  sunny  as  cold, 
She  meant  to  weave  me  a  snare 
Of  some  coquettish  deceit, 


MAUD. 


133 


Cleopatra-like  as  of  old 

To  entangle  me  when  we  met, 

To  have  her  lion  roll  in  a  silken  net, 

And  fawn  at  a  victor's  feet 

5. 

Ah,  what  shall  I  he  at  fifty 

Should  Nature  keep  me  alive, 

If  I  find  the  world  so  bitter 

When  I  am  but  twenty-five? 

Yet,  if  she  were  not  a  cheat, 

If  Maud  were  all  that  she  seem'd, 

And  her  smile  were  all  that  I  dream'd, 

Then  the  world  were  not  so  bitter 

But  a  smile  could  make  it  sweet. 

6. 

What  if  tho'  her  eye  seem'd  full 
Of  a  kind  intent  to  me, 
What  if  that  dandy-despot,  he, 
That  jewell'd  mass  of  millinery, 
That  oil'd  and  curl'd  Assyrian  Bull 
Smelling  of  musk  and  of  insolence, 
Her  brother,  from  whom  I  keep  aloof, 
Who  wants  the  finer  politic  sense 
To  mask,  tho'  but  in  his  own  behoof, 
With  a  glassy  smile  his  brutal  scorn, — 
What  if  he  had  told  her  yestermorn 
How  prettily  for  his  own  sweet  sake 
A  face  of  tenderness  might  be  feign'd, 
And  a  moist  mirage  in  desert  eyes, 
That  so,  when  the  rotten  hustings  shake 
In  another  month  to  his  brazen  lies, 
A  wretched  vote  may  be  gain'd. 


For  a  raven  ever  croaks,  at  my  side, 

Keep  watch  and  ward,  keep  watch  and  ward, 

Or  thou  wilt  prove  their  tooL 

Yea  too,  myself  from  myself  I  guard, 

For  often  a  man's  own  angry  pride 

Is  cap  and  bells  for  a  fooL 

8. 

Perhaps  the  smile  and  tender  tone 

Came  out  ot  her  pitying  womanhood, 

For  am  I  not,  am  1  not,  here  alone 

So  many  a  summer  since  she  died, 

My  mother,  who  was  so  gentle  and  good  ? 

Living  alone  in  an  empty  house, 

Here  half-hid  in  the  gleaming  wood, 

Where  I  hear  the  dead  at  midday  moan, 

And  the  shrieking  rush  of  the  wainscot  mouse, 

And  my  own  sad  name  in  corners  cried, 

When  the  shiver  of  dancing  leaves  is  thrown 

About  its  echoing  chambers  wide, 

Till  a  morbid  hate  and  horror  have  grown 

Of  a  world  in  which  I  have  hardly  mixt, 

And  a  morbid  eating  lichen  fixt 

On  a  heart  half-turn'd  to  stone. 

9. 

0  heart  of  stone,  are  you  flesh,  and  caught 
By  that  you  swore  to  withstand  ? 

For  what  was  it  else  within  me  wrought 
But,  I  fear,  the  new  strong  wine  of  love, 
That  made  my  tongue  so  stammer  and  trip 
When  I  saw  the  treasured  splendor,  her  hand, 
Come  sliding  out  of  her  sacred  glove, 
And  the  sunlight  broke  from  her  lip? 

10. 

1  have  play'd  with  her  when  a  child ; 
She  remembers  it  now  we  meet. 

Ah  well,  well,  well,  I  may  be  beguiled 
By  some  coquettish  deceit 
Yet,  if  she  were  not  a  cheat, 


If  Maud  were  all  that  she  seem'd, 
And  her  smile  had  all  that  I  dream'd, 
Then  the  world  were  not  so  bitter 
But  a  smile  could  make  it  sweet. 

vn. 

i. 

DID  I  hear  it  half  in  a  doze 
Long  since,  I  know  not  where  ? 

Did  I  dream  it  an  hour  ago, 
When  asleep  in  this  arm-chair? 

2. 

Men  were  drinking  together, 
Drinking  and  talking  of  me ; 

"  Well,  if  it  prove  a  girl,  the  boy 
Will  have  plenty:  so  let  it  be." 


Is  it  an  echo  of  something 
Read  with  a  boy's  delight, 

Viziers  nodding  together 
In  some  Arabian  night? 


Strange,  that  I  hear  two  men, 

Somewhere,  talking  of  me ; 
"Well,  if  it  prove  a  girl,  my  boy 

Will  have  plenty:  so  let  it  be." 

VIIL 

SUE  came  to  the  village  church, 

And  sat  by  a  pillar  alone ; 

An  angel  watching  an  nrn 

Wept  over  her,  carved  in  stone ; 

And  once,  but  once,  she  lifted  her  eyes, 

And  suddenly,  sweetly,  strangely  blush'd 

To  find  they  were  met  by  my  own ; 

And  suddenly,  sweetly,  my  heart  beat  stronger 

And  thicker,  until  I  heard  no  longer 

The  snowy-banded,  dilettante, 

Delicate-handed  priest  intone; 

And  thought,  is  it  pride,  and  mused  and  sigh'd 

"  No  surely,  now  it  cannot  be  pride." 

IX. 

I  WAS  walking  a  mile, 
More  than  a  mile  from  the  shore, 
The  sun  look'd  out  with  a  smile 
Betwixt  the  cloud  and  the  moor, 
And  riding  at  set  of  day 
Over  the  dark  moor  land, 
Rapidly  riding  far  away, 
She  waved  to  me  with  her  hand. 
There  were  two  at  her  side, 
Something  flash'd  in  the  sun, 
Down  by  the  hill  I  saw  them  ride, 
In  a  moment  they  were  gone : 
Xike  a  sudden  spark 
Struck  vainly  in  the  night, 
And  back  returns  the  dark 
WTith  no  more  hope  of  light 


1. 

SIOK,  am  I  sick  of  a  jealous  dread  ? 
Was  not  one  of  the  two  at  her  side 
This  new-made  lord,  whose  splendor  plucks 
The  slavish  hat  from  the  villager's  head  ? 
Whose  old  grandfather  has  lately  died, 
Gone  to  a  blacker  pit,  for  whom 
Grimy  nakedness  dragging  his  trucks 
And  laying  his  trains  in  a  poison'd  gloom 
Wrought,  till  he  crept  from  a  gutted  miue 
Master  of  half  a  servile  shire, 


134 


MAUD. 


And  left  his  coal  all  turn'd  into  gold 
To  a  grandson,  first  of  his  noble  line, 
Rich  in  the  grace  all  women  desire, 
Strong  in  the  power  that  all  men  adore, 
And  simper  and  set  their  voices  lower, 
And  soften  as  if  to  a  girl,  and  hold 
Awe-stricken  breaths  at  a  work  divine, 
Seeing  his  gewgaw  castle  shine, 
New  as  his  title,  built  last  year, 
There  amid  perky  larches  and  pine, 
And  over  the  snllen-pnrple  moor 
(Look  at  it)  pricking  a  cockney  ear. 

2. 

What,  has  he  found  my  jewel  out? 
For  one  of  the  two  that  rode  at  her  side 
Bound  for  the  Hall,  I  am  sure  was  he : 
Bound  for  the  Hall,  and  I  think  for  a  bride. 
Blithe  would  her  brother's  acceptance  be. 
Maud  could  be  gracious  too,  no  doubt, 
To  a  lord,  a  captain,  a  padded  shape, 
A  bought  commission,  a  waxen  face, 
A  rabbit  mouth  that  is  ever  agape — 
Bought  ?  what  is  it  he  cannot  buy  ? 
And  therefore  splenetic,  personal,  base, 
A  wounded  thing  with  a  rancorous  cry, 
At  war  with  myself  and  a  wretched  race, 
Sick,  sick  to  the  heart  of  life,  am  I. 


Last  week  came  one  to  the  county  town, 
To  preach  our  poor  little  army  down, 
And  play  the  game  of  the  despot  kings, 
Tho'  the  state  has  done  it  and  thrice  as  well : 
This  broad-brim'd  hawker  ot  holy  things, 
Whose  ear  is  stuffd  with  his  cotton,  and  rings 
Even  in  dreams  to  the  chink  of  his  pence, 
This  huckster  put  down  war !  can  he  tell 
Whether  war  be  a  cause  or  a  consequence? 
Put  down  the  passions  that  make  earth  Hell ! 
Down  with  ambition,  avarice,  pride, 
Jealousy,  down  !  cut  off  from  the  mind 
The  bitter  springs  of  anger  and  fear ; 
Down  too,  down  at  your  own  fireside, 
With  the  evil  tongue  and  the  evil  ear, 
For  each  is  at  war  with  mankind. 

4. 

I  wish  I  could  hear  again 

The  chivalrous  battle-song 

That  she  warbled  alone  in  her  joy  ! 

I  might  persuade  myself  then 

She  would  not  do  herself  this  great  wrong 

To  take  a  wanton,  dissolute  boy 

For  a  man  and  leader  of  men. 

5. 

Ah  God,  for  a  man  with  heart,  head,  hand, 
Like  some  of  the  simple  great  ones  gone 
For  ever  and  ever  by, 
One  still  strong  man  in  a  blatant  land, 
Whatever  they  call  him,  what  care  I, 
Aristocrat,  democrat,  autocrat, — one 
Who  can  rule  and  dare  not  lie. 


And  ah  for  a  man  to  arise  in  me, 
That  the  man  I  am  may  cease  to  be ! 

XL 

1. 

O  LET  the  solid  ground 
Not  fail  beneath  my  feet 

Before  my  life  has  found 
What  some  have  found  so  sweet; 


Then  let  come  what  come  may, 
What  matter  if  I  go  mad, 
I  shall  have  had  my  day. 

2. 

Let  the  sweet  heavens  endure, 
Not  close  and  darken  above  me 

Before  I  am  quite  quite  sure 
That  there  is  one  to  love  me; 

Then  let  come  what  come  may 

To  a  life  that  has  been  so  sad, 

I  shall  have  had  my  day. 

XII. 
1. 

BIEDS  in  the  high  Hall-garden 
When  twilight  was  falling, 

Maud,  Maud,  Maud,  Maud, 
They  were  crying  and  calling. 

2. 
Where  was  Maud  ?  in  our  wood ; 

And  I,  who  else,  was  with  her, 
Gathering  woodland  lilies, 

Myriads  blow  together. 

3. 
Birds  in  our  woods  sang 

Ringing  thro'  the  valleys, 
Maud  is  here,  here,  here 

In  among  the  lilies. 


I  kiss'd  her  slender  hana, 
She  took  the  kiss  sedately ; 

Maud  is  not  seventeen, 
But  she  is  tall  and  stately. 

5. 

I  to  cry  out  on  pride 
Who  have  won  her  favor! 

0  Maud  were  sure  of  Heaven 
If  lowliness  could  save  her. 

6. 

1  know  the  way  she  went 
Home  with  her  maiden  posy, 

For  her  feet  have  touch'd  the  meadows 
And  left  the  daisies  rosy. 

7. 
Birds  in  the  high  Hall-garden 

Were  crying  and  calling  to  her, 
Where  is  Maud,  Maud,  Maud, 

One  is  come  to  woo  her. 

8. 

Look,  a  horse  at  the  door, 
And  little  King  Charles  is  snarling, 

Go  back,  my  lord,  across  the  moor, 
You  are  not  her  darling. 

XIII. 
1. 

SCOKN'D,  to  be  scorn'd  by  one  that  I  scorn, 

Is  that  a  matter  to  make  me  fret  ? 

That  a  calamity  hard  to  be  borne  ? 

Well,  he  may  live  to  hate  me  yet 

Fool  that  I  am  to  be  vext  with  his  pride ! 

I  past  him,  I  was  crossing  his  lands; 

He  stood  on  the  path  a  little  aside; 

His  face,  as  I  grant,  in  spite  of  spite, 

Has  a  broad-blown  comeliness,  red  and  white, 


MAUD. 


135 


And  six  feet  two,  as  I  think,  he  stands ; 
Bat  his  essences  turn'd  the  live  air  sick, 
And  barbarous  opulence  jewel-thick 
Suun'd  itself  on  his  breast  aud  his  hands. 

2. 

Who  shall  call  me  ungentle,  unfair, 
I  long'd  so  heartily  then  and  there 
To  give  him  the  grasp  of  fellowship ; 
But  while  I  past  he  was  humming  an  air, 
Stopt,  and  then  with  a  riding  whip 
Leisurely  tapping  a  glossy  boot, 
And  curving  a  contumelious  lip, 
Gorgonized  me  from  head  to  foot 
With  a  stony  British  stare. 


Why  sits  he  here  in  hi8  father's  chair? 
That  old  man  never  comes  to  his  place: 
Shall  I  believe  him  ashamed  to  be  seen  ? 
For  only  once,  in  the  village  street, 
Last  year,  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  his  face, 
A  gray  old  wolf  and  a  lean.  , 

Scarcely,  now,  would  I  call  him  a  cheat ; 
For  then,  perhaps,  as  a  child  of  deceit, 
She  might  by  a  true  descent  be  untrue ; 
And  Maud  is  as  true  as  Maud  is  sweet ; 
Tho'  I  fancy  her  sweetness  only  due 
To  the  sweeter  blood  by  the  other  side; 
Her  mother  has  been  a  thing  complete, 
However  she  came  to  be  so  allied. 
And  fair  without,  faithful  within, 
Maud  to  him  is  nothing  akin : 
Some  peculiar  mystic  grace 
Made  her  only  the  child  of  her  mother, 
And  heap'd  the  whole  inherited  sin 
On  that  huge  scapegoat  of  the  race, 
All,  all  upon  the  brother. 


Peace,  angry  spirit,  and  let  him  be  I 
Has  not  his  sister  smiled  on  me? 

XIV. 

1. 

MAUD  has  a  garden  of  roses 
And  lilies  fair  on  a  lawn ; 
There  she  walks  in  her  state 
And  tends  upon  bed  and  bower 
And  thither  I  climb'd  at  dawn 
And  stood  by  her  garden  gate; 
A  lion  ramps  at  the  top, 
He  is  claspt  by  a  passion-flower. 


Maud's  own  little  oak-room 

(Which  Maud,  like  a  precious  stone 

Set  in  the  heart  of  the  carven  gloom, 

Lights  with  herself,  when  alone 

She  sits  by  her  music  and  books, 

And  her  brother  lingers  late 

With  a  roystering  company)  looks 

Upon  Maud's  own  garden  gate : 

And  I  thought  as  I  stood,  if  a  hand,  as  white 

As  ocean-foam  in  the  moon,  were  laid 

On  the  hasp  of  the  window,  and  my  Delight 

Ilad  a  sudden  desire,  like  a  glorious  ghost,  to  glide, 

Like  a  beam  of  the  seventh  Heaven,  down  to  my  side, 

There  were  but  a  step  to  be  made. 

3. 

The  fancy  flatter'd  my  mind, 

And  again  seem'd  overbold ; 

Now  I  thought  that  she  cared  for  me, 

Now  I  thought  she  was  kind 

Only  because  she  was  cold. 


4. 

I  heard  no  sound  where  I  stood 

But  the  rivulet  on  from  the  lawn 

Running  down  to  my  own  dark  wood ; 

Or  the  voice  of  the  long  sea-wave  as  it  swell'd 

Now  and  then  in  the  dim-gray  dawn ; 

But  I  look'd,  and  round,  all  round  the  house  I  be- 
held 

The  death-white  curtain  drawn; 

Felt  a  horror  over  me  creep, 

Prickle  my  skin  and  catch  my  breath, 

Knew  tljat  the  death-white  curtain  meant  but  sleep, 

Yet  I  shudder'd  and  thought  like  a  fool  of  the  sleep 
of  death. 

XV. 

So  dark  a  mind  within  me  dwells, 

And  I  make  myself  such  evil  cheer, 
That  if  I  be  dear  to  some  one  else, 

Then  some  one  else  may  have  much  to  fear; 
But  if  I  be  dear  to  some  one  else, 

Then  I  should  be  to  myself  more  dear. 
Shall  I  not  take  care  of  all  that  I  think, 
Yea  ev'n  of  wretched  meat  and  drink, 
If  I  be  dear, 
If  I  be  dear  to  some  one  else  ? 

XVL 


TIIIB  lump  of  earth  has  left  his  estate 

The  lighter  by  the  loss  of  his  weight ; 

And  so  that  he  find  what  he  went  to  seek, 

And  fulsome  Pleasure  clog  him,  and  drown 

His  heart  in  the  gross  mud-honey  of  town, 

He  may  stay  for  a  year  who  has  gone  for  a  week 

But  this  is  the  day  when  I  must  speak, 

And  I  see  my  Oread  coming  down, 

O  this  is  the  day ! 

0  beautiful  creature,  what  am  I 
That  I  dare  to  look  her  way; 
Think  I  may  hold  dominion  sweet, 

Lord  of  the  pulse  that  is  lord  of  her  breast, 
And  dream  of  her  beauty  with  tender  dread, 
From  the  delicate  Arab  arch  of  her  feet 
To  the  grace  that,  bright  and  light  ^s  the  creet 
Of  a  peacock,  sits  on  her  shining  head, 
And  she  knows  it  not :  O,  if  she  knew  it, 
To  know  her  beauty  might  half  undo  it. 

1  know  it  the  one  bright  thing  to  save 
My  yet  young  life  in  the  wilds  of  Time, 
Perhaps  from  madness,  perhaps  from  crime 
Perhaps  from  a  selfish  grave. 


What,  if  she  were  fasten 'd  to.  this  fool  lord, 

Dare  I  bid  her  abide  by  her  word  f 

Should  I  love  her  so  well  if  she 

Had  given  her  word  to  a  thing  so  low? 

Shall  I  love  her  as  well  if  she 

Can  break  her  word  were  it  even  for  me  ? 

I  trust  that  it  is  not  so. 

3. 

Catch  not  my  breath,  O  clamorous  heart, 
Let  not  my  tongue  be  a  thrall  to  my  eye, 
For  I  must  tell  her  before  we  part, 
I  must  tell  her,  or  die. 

•    xvn. 

Go  not,  happy  day, 
From  the  shining  fields, 

Go  not,  happy  day, 
Till  the  maiden  yields. 


136 


MAUD. 


Rosy  is  the  West, 

Rosy  is  the  South, 
Roses  are  her  cheeks, 

And  a  rose  her  mouth. 
When  the  happy  Yes 

Falters  from  her  lips, 
Pass  and.  blush  the  news 

O'er  the  blowing  ships, 
Over  blowing  seas, 

Over  seas  at  rest, 
Pass  the  happy  news, 

Blush  it  thro'  the  West, 
Till  the  red  man  dance 

By  his  red  cedar-tree, 
And  the  red  man's  babe 

Leap,  beyond  the  sea. 
Blush  from  West  to  East, 

Blush  from  East  to  West, 
Till  the  West  is  East, 

Blush  it  thro'  the  West. 
Rosy  is  the  West, 

Rosy  is  the  South, 
Roses  are  her  cheeks, 

And  a  rose  her  mouth. 

xvm. 
i. 

I  DAVE  led  her  home,  my  love,  my  only  friend. 

There  is  none  like  her,  none, 

And  never  yet  so  warmly  ran  my  blood 

And  sweetly,  on  and  on 

Calming  itself  to  the  long-wish'd-for  end, 

Full  to  the  banks,  close  on  the-  promised  good. 

2. 

None  like  her,  none. 

Just  now  the  dry-tongued  laurel's  pattering  talk 

Seem'd  her  light  foot  along  the  garden  walk, 

And  shook  my  heart  to  think  she  comes  once  more ; 

But  even  then  I  heard  her  close  the  door, 

The  gates  of  heaven  are  closed,  and  she  is  gone. 

3. 

There  is  none  like  her,  none. 
Nor  will  be  when  our  summers  have  deceased. 
O,  art  thou  sighing  for  Lebanon 
In  the  long  breeze  that  streams  to  thy  delicious 

East, 

Sighing  for  Lebanon, 

Dark  cedar,  tho'  thy  limbs  have  here  increased, 
Upon  a  pastoral  slope  as  fair, 
And  looking  t<3  the  South,  and  fed 
With  honey'd  rain  and  delicate  air, 
And  haunted  by  the  starry  head 
Of  her  whose  gentle  will  has  changed  my  fate, 
And  made  my  life  a  perfumed  altar-flame ; 
And  over  whom  thy  darkness  must  have  spread 
With  such  delight  as  theirs  of  old,  thy  great 
Forefathers  of  the  thomless  garden,  there 
Shadowing  the   snow-limb'd  Eve  from  whom  she 

came. 

4. 

Here  will  I  lie,  while  these  long  branches  sway, 
And  you  fair  stars  that  crown  a  happy  day 
Go  in  and  out  as  if  at  merry  play, 
Who  am  no  more  so  all  forlorn, 
As  when  it  seem'd  far  better  to  be  born 
To  labor  and  the  mattock-harden'd  hand, 
Than  nursed  at  ease  and  brought  to  understand 
A  sad  astrology,  the  boundless  plan 
That  makes  yon  tyrants  in  yonr  iron  skies, 
Innumerable,  pitiless,  passionless  eyes, 
Cold  fires,  yet  with  power  to  burn  and  brand 
His  nothingness  into  man. 


But  now  shine  on,  and  what  care  I, 

Who  in  this  stormy  gulf  have  found  a  p«arl 

The  conntercharm  of  space  and  hollow  eky, 

And  do  accept  my  madness  and  would  die 

To  save  from  some  slight  shame  one  simple  girl. 

6. 

Would  die ;  for  sullen-seeming  Death  may  give 

More  life  to  Love  than  is  or  ever  was 

In  our  low  world,  where  yet  't  is  sweet  to  live. 

Let  no  one  ask  me  how  it  came  to  pass ; 

It  seems  that  I  am  happy,  that  to  me 

A  livelier  emerald  twinkles  in  the  grass, 

A  purer  sapphire  melts  into  the  sea. 

7. 

Not  die ;  but  live  a  life  of  truest  breath, 
And  teach  true  life  to  fight  with  mortal  wrongs. 
O,  why  should  Love,  like  men  in  drinking-songs, 
Spice  his  fair  banquet  with  the  dust  ot  death  ? 
Make  answer,.Maud  my  bliss. 
Maud  made  my  Maud  by  that  long  lover's  kiss, 
Life  of  my  life,  wilt  thou  not  answer  this  ? 
"  The  dusky  strand  of  Death  inwoven  here 
With  dear  Love's  tie,  makes  Love  himself  more  dear. ' 

8. 

Is  that  enchanted  moan  only  the  swell 
Of  the  long  waves  that  roll  in  yonder  bay  ? 
And  hark  the  clock  within,  the  silver  knell 
Of  twelve  sweet  hours  that  past  in  bridal  white, 
And  died  to  live,  long  as  my  pulses  play ; 
But  now  by  this  my  love  has  closed  her  sight 
And  given  false  death  her  hand,  and  stol'n  away 
To  dreamful  wastes  where  footless  fancies  dwell 
Among  the  fancies  of  the  golden  day. 
May  nothing  there  her  maiden  grace  affright ! 
Dear  heart,  I  feel  with  thee  the  drowsy  spell. 
My  bride  to  be,  my  evermore  delight, 
My  own  heart's  heart  and  ownest  own  farewell; 
It  is  but  for  a  little  space  I  go 
And  ye  meanwhile  far  over  moor  and  fell 
Beat  to  the  noiseless  music  of  the  night ! 
Has  our  whole  earth  gone  nearer  to  the  glow 
Of  your  soft  splendors  that  you  look  so  bright  ? 
/  have  climb'd  nearer  out  of  lonely  Hell. 
Beat,  happy  stars,  timing  with  things  below, 
Beat  with  my  heart  more  blest  than  heart  can  tell 
Blest,  but  for  some  dark  undercurrent  woe 
That  seems  to  draw — but  it  shall  not  be  so: 
Let  all  be  well,  be  well. 

XIX. 
1. 

Ilr.K  brother  is  coming  back  to-night, 
Breaking  up  my  dream  of  delight. 


My  dream  f  do  I  dream  of  bliss  f 
I  have  walk'd  awake  with  Truth. 

0  when  did  a  morning  shine 
So  rich  in  atonement  as  this 
For  my  dark  dawning  youth, 
Darken'd  watching  a  mother  decline 

And  that  dead  man  at  her  heart  and  mine: 
For  who  was  left  to  watch  her  but  I  f 
Yet  so  did  I  let  my  freshness  die. 

3. 

1  trust  that  I  did  not  talk 
To  gentle  Maud  in  our  walk 
(For  often  in  lonely  .wanderings 

I  have  cursed  him  even  to  lifeless  things) 


MAUD. 


137 


But  I  trust  that  I  did  not  talk, 

Not  touch  oil  her  father's  sin: 

I  am  sure  I  did  but  speak 

Of  my  mother's  faded  cheek 
!  When  it  slowly  grew  so  thin, 
!  That  I  felt  she  was  slowly  dying 

Vext  with  lawyers  and  harass'd  with  debt : 

For  how  often  I  caught  her  with  eyes  all  wet, 

Shaking  her  head  at  her  sou  and  sighing 

A  world  of  trouble  within  ! 

4. 

And  Hand  too,  Maud  was  moved 

To  speak  of  the  mother  she  loved 

As  one  scarce  less  forlorn, 

Dying  abroad  and  it  seems  apart 

From  him  who  had  ceased  to  share  her  heart, 

And  ever  mourning  over  the  feud, 

The  household  Fury  sprinkled  with  blood 

By  which  our  houses  are  torn  ; 

How  strange  was  what  she  said, 

When  only  Maud  and  the  brother 

Hung  over  her  dying  bed, — 

That  Maud's  dark  father  and  mine 

Ilad  bound  ns  one  to  the  other, 

Betrothed  us  over  their  wine 

On  the  day  when  Maud  was  born ; 

Seal'd  her  mine  from  her  first  sweet  breath. 

Mine,  mine  by  a  right,  from  birth  till  death, 

Mine,  mine — our  fathers  have  sworn. 

5. 

But  the  true  blood  spilt  had  in  it  a  heat 
To  dissolve  the  precious  seal  on  a  bond, 
That,  if  left  uacancell'd,  had  been  so  sweet : 
And  none  of  us  thought  of  a  something  beyond, 
A  desire  that  awoke  in  the  heart  of  the  child, 
As  it  were  a  duty  done  to  the  tomb, 
To  be  friends  for  her  sake,  to  be  reconciled; 
And  I  was  cursing  them  and  my  doom, 
And  letting  a  dangerous  thought  run  wild 
While  often  abroad  in  the  fragrant  gloom 
Of  foreign  churches,— I  see  her  there, 
Bright  English  lily,  breathing  a  prayer 
To  be  friends,  to  be  reconciled ! 

6. 

But  then  what  a  flint  is  he! 

Abroad,  at  Florence,  at  Rome, 

I  find  whenever  she  touch'd  on  me 

This  brother  had  laugh'd  her  down, 

And  at  last,  when  each  came  home, 

He  had  darken'd  into  a  frown, 

Chid  her,  and  forbid  her  to  speak 

To  me,  her  friend  of  the  years  before ; 

And  this  was  what  had  redden'd  her  cheek, 

When  I  bow'd  to  her  on  the  moor. 

7. 

Vet  Maud,  altho'  not  blind 

To  the  faults  of  his  heart  and  mind, 

I  see  she  cannot  but  love  him, 

And  says  he  is  rough  but  kind, 

And  wishes  me  to  approve  him, 

And  tells  me,  when  she  lay 

Sick  once,  with  a  fear  of  worse, 

That  he  left  his  wine  and  horses  and  play, 

Sat  with  her,  read  to  her,  night  and  day, 

And  tended  her  like  a  nurse. 

8. 

Kind?  but  the  death-bed  desire 
Spurn'd  by  this  heir  of  the  liar — 
Rough  but  kind  ?  yet  I  know 
'  He  has  plotted  against  me  in  this, 


That  he  plots  against  me  still. 
Kind  to  Maud  ?  that  were  not  amiss. 
Well,  rough  but  kind ;  why,  let  it  be  BO  : 
For  shall  not  Maud  have  her  will  ? 

9. 

For,  Maud,  so  tender  and  true, 
As  long  as  my  life  endures 
I  feel  I  shall  owe  you  a  dabt, 
That  I  never  can  hope  to  pay; 
And  if  ever  I  should  forget 
That  I  owe  this  debt  to  you 
And  for  your  sweet  sake  to  yours ; 

0  then,  what  then  shall  I  say  ? — 
If  ever  I  should  forget, 

May  God  make  me  more  wretched 
Than  ever  I  have  been  yet ! 

10. 

So  now  I  have  sworn  to  bury 
All  this  dead  body  of  hate, 

1  feel  so  free  and  so  clear 

By  the  loss  of  that  dead  weight. 

That  I  should  grow  light-headed,  I  fear, 

Fantastically  merry; 

But  that  her  brother  comes,  like  a  blight 

On  my  fresh  hope,  to  the  Hall  to-night 

XX. 

1. 

STUANGE,  that  I  felt  so  gay, 
Strange  that  I  tried  to-day 
To  beguile  her  melancholy ; 
The  Sultan,  as  we  name  him, — 
She  did  not  wish  to  blame  him — 
But  he  vest  her  and  perplext  her 
With  his  worldly  talk  and  folly: 
Was  it  gentle  to  reprove  her 
For  stealing  out  of  view 
From  a  little  lazy  lover 
Who  but  claims  her  as  his  due? 
Or  for  chilling  his  caresses 
By  the  coldness  of  her  manners, 
Nay,  the  plainness  of  her  dresses  ? 
Now  I  know  her  but  in  two, 
Nor  can  pronounce  upon  it 
If  one  should  ask  me  whether 
The  habit,  hat,  and  feather, 
Or  the  frock  and  gypsy  bonnet 
Be  the  neater  and  completer; 
For  nothing  can  be  sweeter 
Than  maiden  Maud  in  either. 

2. 

But  to-morrow,  if  we  live, 
Our  ponderous  squire  will  give 
A  grand  political  dinner 
To  half  the  sqnirelings  near; 
And  Maud  will  wear  her  jewels, 
And  the  bird  Oi  prey  will  hover, 
And  the  titmonse  hope  to  win  her 
With  his  chirrup  at  her  ear. 

3. 

A  grand  political  dinner 

To  the  men  of  many  acres, 

A  gathering  of  the  Tory, 

A  dinner  and  then  a  dance 

For  the  maids  and  marriage-makers. 

And  every  eye  but  mine  will  glauie 

At  Maud  in  all  her  glory. 

4. 

For  I  am  not  invited, 
But,  with  the  Sultan's  pardo 
I  am  all  as  well  delighted, 
For  I  know  her  own  rose-garden. 


138 


MAUD. 


And  mean  to  linger  in  it 
Till  the  dancing  will  be  over; 
And  then,  O  then,  come  out  to  me 
For  a  minute,  but  for  a  minute, 
Come  out  to  your  own  true  lover, 
That  your  true  lover  may  see 
Your  glory  also,  and  render 
All  homage  to  his  own  darling, 
Queen  Maud  in  all  her  splendor. 

XXI. 

RIVULET  crossing  my  ground, 

And  bringing  me  down  from  the  Hall 

This  garden-rose  that  I  found, 

Forgetful  of  Maud  and  me, 

And  lost  in  trouble  and  moving  round 

Here  at  the  head  of  a  tinkling  fall, 

And  trying  to  pass  to  the  sea ; 

O  Rivulet,  born  at  the  Hall, 

My  Maud  has  sent  it  by  thee 

(If  I  read  her  sweet  will  right)  . 

On  a  blushing  mission  to  me, 

Saying  in  odor  and  color,  "  Ah,  be 

Among  the  roses  to-night." 

XXII. 
1. 

COME  Into  the  garden,  Maud, 
For  the  black  bat,  night,  has  flown, 

Come  into  the  garden,  Maud, 
I  am  here  at  the  gate  alone ; 

And  the  woodbine  spices  are  wafted  abroad, 
And  the  musk  of  the  roses  blown. 

2. 

For  a  breeze  of  morning  moves, 
And  the  planet  of  Love  is  on  high, 

Beginning  to  faint  in  the  light  that  she  loves 
On  a  bed  of  daffodil  sky, 

To  faint  in  the  light  of  the  sun  that  she  loves, 
To  faint  in  his  light,  and  to  die. 

3. 
All  night  have  the  roses  heard 

The  flute,  violin,  bassoon ; 
All  night  has  the  casement  jessamine  stirr'd 

To  the  dancers  dancing  in  tune ; 
Till  a  silence  fell  with  the  waking  bird, 

And  a  hush  with  the  setting  moon. 


I  said  to  the  lily,  "There  is  but  one 
With  whom  she  has  heart  to  be  gay. 

When  will  the  dancers  leave  her  alone? 
She  is  weary  of  dance  and  play." 

Now  half  to  the  setting  moon  are  gone, 
And  half  to  the  rising  day ; 

Low  on  the  sand  and  loud  on  the  stone 

The  last  wheel  echoes  away. 

5. 

1  said  to  the  rose,  "  The  brief  night  goes 

In  babble  and  revel  and  wine. 
O  young  lord-lover,  what  sighs  are  those, 

For  one  that  will  never  be  thine  ? 
But  mine,  but  mine,"  so  I  sware  to  the  rose, 

"  For  ever  and  ever,  mine." 

6. 

And  the  soul  of  the  rose  went  into  my  blood, 

As  the  music  clash'd  in  the  hall; 
And  long  by  the  garden  lake  I  stood, 

For  I  heard  your  rivulet  fall 
From  the  lake  to  the  meadow  and  on  to  the  wood, 

Our  wood,  that  is  dearer  than  all ; 


7. 
From  the  meadow  your  walks  have  left  so  sweet 

That  whenever  a  March-wind  sighs 
He  sets  the  jewel-print  of  your  feet, 

In  violets  blue  as  your  eyes, 
To  the  woody  hollows  in  which  we  meet 

And  the  valleys  of  Paradise. 


The  slender  acacia  would  not  shake 

One  long  milk-bloom  on  the  tree; 
The  white  lake-blossom  fell  into  the  lake, 

As  the  pimpernel  dozed  on  the  lee; 
But  the  rose  was  awake  all  night  for  your  sake, 

Knowing  your  promise  to  me ; 
The  lilies  and  roses  were  all  awake, 

They  sigh'd  for  the  dawn  and  thee. 

9. 
Queen  rose  of  the  rosebud  gardeu  of  girls, 

Come  hither,  the  dances  are  done, 
In  gloss  of  satin  and  glimmer  of  pearls, 

Queen  lily  and  rose  in  one; 
Shine,  out,  little  head,  sunning  over  with  cuns, 

To  the  flowers,  and  be  their  sun. 

10. 
There  has  fallen  a  splendid  tear 

From  the  passion-flower  at  the  gate. 
She  is  coming,  my  dove,  my  dear ; 

She  is  coming,  my  life,  my  fate ; 
The  red  rose  cries,  "  She  is  near,  she  is  near  ;*-  ; 

And  the  white  rose  weeps,  "She  is  late;" 
The  larkspur  listens,  "I  hear,  I  hear ;" 

And  the  lily  whispers,  "I  wait." 

11. 
She  is  coming,  my  own,  my  sweet  i 

Were  it  ever  so  airy  a  tread, 
My  heart  would  hear  her  and  beat, 

Were  it  earth  in  an  earthy  bed; 
My  dust  would  hear  her  and  beat, 

Had  I  lain  for  a  century  dead; 
Would  start  and  tremble  under  her  feet, 

And  blossom  in  purple  and  red. 

XXIIL 
1. 

"  The  fault  was  mine,  the  fault  was  mine '  — 

Why  am  I  sitting  here  so  stnnn'd  and  still, 

Plucking  the  harmless  wild-flower  on  the  hill  ? — 

It  is  this  guilty  hand  !— 

And  there  rises  ever  a  passionate  cry 

From  underneath  in  the  darkening  land — 

What  is  it,  that  has  been  done* 

O  dawn  of  Eden  bright  over  earth  and  sky, 

The  fires  of  Hell  brake  out  of  thy  rising  sun, 

The  fires  of  Hell  and  of  Hate ; 

For  she,  sweet  soul,  had  hardly  spoken  a  word, 

When  her  brother  ran  in  his  rage  to  the  gate, 

He  came  with  the  babe-faced  lord; 

Heap'd  on  her  terms  of  disgrace, 

And  while  she  wept,  and  I  strove  to  be  cool, 

He  fiercely  gave  me  the  lie, 

Till  I  with  as  fierce  an  anger  spoke, 

And  he  struck  me,  madman,  over  the  face, 

Struck  me  before  the  languid  fool, 

Who  was  gaping  and  grinning  by: 

Struck  for  himself  an  evil  stroke : 

Wrought  for  his  house  an  irredeemable  woe; 

For  front  to  front  in  an  hour  we  stood, 

And  a  million  horrible  bellowing  echoes  broke 

From  the  red-ribb'd  hollow  behind  the  wood, 

And  thunder'd  up  into  Heaven  the  Christless  cods 

That  must  have  life  for  a  blow. 


MAUD. 


139 


Ever  and  ever  afresh  they  eeem'd  to  grow. 
Was  it  he  lay  there  with  a  fading  eye  ? 
"The  fault  was  mine,"  he  whisper'd,  "fly!" 
Then  glided  out  of  the  joyous  wood 
The  ghastly  Wraith  of  one  that  I  know ; 
And  there  rang  on  a  sudden  a  passionate  cry, 
A  cry  for  a  brother's  blood: 

It  will  ring  in  my  heart  arid  my  ears,  till  I  die,  till 
I  die. 


Is  it  gone  ?  my  pulses  beat— 

What  was  it  ?  a  lying  trick  of  the  brain  ? 

Yet  I  thought  I  saw  her  stand, 

A  shadow  there  at  my  feet, 

High  over  the  shadowy  land. 

It  is  gone ;  and  the  heavens  fall  in  a  gentle  rain, 

When  they  should  burst  and  drown  with  deluging 

storms 

The  feeble  vassals  of  wine  and  anger  and  lust, 
The  little  hearts  that  know  not  how  to  forgive: 
Arise,  my  God,  and  strike,  for  we  hold  Thee  just, 
Strike  dead  the  whole  weak  race  of  venomous  worms, 
That  sting  each  other  here  in  the  dust ; 
We  are  not  worthy  to  live. 

XXIV. 

1. 

SEE  what  a  lovely  shell, 
Small  and  pure  as  a  pearl, 
Lying  close  to  my  foot, 
Frail,  but  a  work  divine, 
Made  so  fairily  well 
With  delicate  spire  and  whorl, 
How  exquisitely  minute, 
A  miracle  of  design ! 

2. 

What  is  it  ?  a  learned  man 
Could  give  it  a  clumsy  name. 
Let  him  name  it  who  can, 
The  beauty  would  be  the  same. 

3. 

The  tiny  cell  is  forlorn, 
Void  of  the  little  living  will 
That  made  it  stir  on  the  shore. 
Did  he  stand  at  the  diamond  door 
Of  his  house  in  a  rainbow  frill  ? 
Did  he  push,  when  he  was  uncurl'd, 
A  golden  foot  or  a  fairy  horn 
Thro'  his  dim  water-world  ? 

4. 

Slight,  to  be  crush'd  with  a  tap 
Of  my  finger-nail  on  the  sand, 
Small,  but  a  work  divine, 
Frail,  but  of  force  to  withstand, 
Year  upon  year,  the  shock 
Of  cataract  seas  that  snap 
The  three-decker's  oaken  spine 
Athwart  the  ledges  of  rock, 
Here  on  the  Breton  strand ! 

5. 

Breton,  not  Briton ;  here 

Like  a  shipwreck'd  man  on  a  coast 

Of  ancient  fable  and  fear, — 

Plagued  with  a  flitting  to  and  fro, 

A  disease,  a  hard  mechanic  ghost 

That  never  came  from  on  high 

Nor  ever  arose  from  below, 

But  only  moves  with  the  moving  eye, 

Flying  along  the  land  and  the  main,— 


Why  should  it  look  like  Maud  f 
Am  I  to  be  overawed 
By  what  I  cannot  but  know 
Is  a  juggle  born  of  the  brain  ? 

6. 

Back  from  the  Breton  coast, 
Sick  of  a  nameless  fear, 
Back  to  the  dark  sea-line  , 

Looking,  thinking  of  all  I  have  lost ;     ' 
An  old  song  vexes  my  ear; 
But  that  of  Lamech  is  mine.  . 

T. 

For  years,  a  measureless  ill, 
For  years,  forever,  to  part, — 
But  she,  she  would  love  me  still  t 
And  as  long,  O  God,  as  she 
Have  a  grain  of  love  for  me, 
So  long,  no  doubt,  no  doubt, 
Shall  I  nurse  in  my  dark  heart,  | 

However  weary,  a  spark  of  will 
Not  to  be  trampled  out. 

8. 

Strange,  that  the  mind,  when  fraugnt 

With  a  passion  so  intense 

One  would  think  that  it  well 

Might  drown  all  life  in  the  eye, — 

That  it  should,  by  being  so  overwrought, 

Suddenly  strike  on  a  sharper  sense 

For  a  shell,  or  a  flower,  little  things 

Which  else  would  have  been  past  by ! 

And  now  I  remember,  I, 

When  he  lay  dying  there, 

I  noticed  one  of  his  many  rings 

(For  he  had  many,  poor  worm)  and  thought 

It  is  his  mother's  hair. 

9. 

Who  knows  if  he  be  dead  1 

Whether  I  need  have  fled? 

Am  I  guilty  of  blood  ? 

However  this  may  be, 

Comfort  her,  comfort  her,  all  things  good, 

While  I  am  over  the  sea! 

Let  me  and  my  passionate  love  go  by, 

But  speak  to  her  all  things  holy  and  high, 

Whatever  happen  to  me  ! 

Me  and  my  harmful  love  go  by; 

But  come  to  her  waking,  find  her  asleep, 

Powers  of  the  height,  Powers  of  the  deep, 

And  comfort  her  tho'  I  die. 

XXV. 

COCBAGE,  poor  heart  of  stone '. 

I  will  not  ask  thee  why 

Thon  canst  not  understand 

That  thqn  art  left  forever  alone : 

Courage,  poor  stupid  heart  of  stone. — 

Or  if  I  ask  thee  why, 

Care  not  thou  to  reply: 

She  is  but  dead,  and  the  time  is  at  hand 

When  thon  ehalt  more  than  die. 

XXVI. 

1. 

O  THAT  't  were  possible 

After  long  grief  and  pain 

To  find  the  arms  of  my  true  love 

Round  me  once  again  1 

2. 

When  I  was  wont  to  meet  her 
In  the  silent  woody  places 


140 


MAUD. 


By  the  home  that  gave  me  birth, 
We  stood  tranced  in  long  embraces 
Mist  with  kisses  sweeter  sweeter 
Than  anything  on  earth. 

3. 

A  shadow  flits  before  me, 
Not  thou,  but  like  to  thee ; 
Ah  Christ,  that  it  were  possible 
For  one  short  hour  to  see 
The  souls  we  loved,  that  they  might  tell  us 
What  and  where  they  be. 

4. 

It  leads  me  forth  at  evening, 

It  lightly  winds  and  steals 

In  a  cold  white  robe  before  me, 

When  all  my  spirit  reels 

At  the  shouts,  the  leagues  of  lights, 

And  the  roaring  of  the  wheels. 

• 

5. 

Half  the  night  I  waste  in  sighs, 
Half  in  dreams  I  sorrow  after 
The  delight  of  early  skies ; 
In  a  wakeful  doze  I  sorrow 
For  the  hand,  the  lips,  the  eyes, 
For  the  meeting  of  the  morrow, 
The  delight  of  happy  laughter, 
The  delight  of  low  replies. 

6. 

T  is  a  morning  pure  and  sweet, 
And  a  dewy  splendor  falls 
On  the  little  flower  that  clings 
To  the  turrets  and  the  walls ; 
T  is  a  morning  pure  and  sweet, 
And  the  light  and  shadow  fleet ; 
She  is  walking  in  the  meadow, 
And  the  woodland  echo  rings; 
In  a  moment  we  shall  meet; 
She  is  singing  in  the  meadow, 
And  the  rivulet  at  her  feet 
Ripples  on  in  light  and  shadow 
To  the  ballad  that  she  sings. 

T. 

Do  I  hear  her  sing  as  of  old, 
My  bird  with  the  shining  head, 
My  own  dove  with  the  tender  eye  ? 
But  there  rings  on  a  sudden  a  passionate  cry, 
There  is  some  one  dying  or  dead, 
And  a  sullen  thunder  is  roll'd; 
For  a  tumult  shakes  the  city, 
And  I  wake,  my  dream  is  fled ; 
In  the  shuddering  dawn,  behold, 
Without  knowledge,  without  pity, 
By  the  curtains  of  my  bed 
That  abiding  phantom  cold. 


Get  thee  hence,  nor  come  again, 
Mix  not  memory  with  doubt, 
Pass,  thou  deathlike  type  of  pain, 
Pass  and  cease  to  move  about, 
'T  is  the  blot  upon  the  brain 
That  will  show  itself  without. 

9. 

Then  I  rise,  the  eavedrops  fall, 
And  the  yellow  vapors  choke 
The  great  city  sounding  wide; 
The  day  comes,  a  dull  red  ball 
Wrapt  in  drifts  of  lurid  smoke 
On  the  misty  river-tide. 


10. 

Thro'  the  hubbub  of  the  market 
I  steal,  a  wasted  frame, 
It  crosses  here,  it  crosses  there, 
Thro'  all  that  crowd  confused  and  loud, 
The  shadow  still  the  same ; 
And  on  my  heavy  eyelids 
My  anguish  hangs  like  shame. 

11. 

Alas  for  her  that  met  me, 
That  heard  me  softly  call, 
Came  glimmering  thro'  the  laurels 
At  the  quiet  evenfall, 
In  the  garden  by  the  turrets 
Of  the  old  manorial  hall. 

12. 

Would  the  happy  spirit  descend, 
From  the  realms  of  light  and  song, 
In  the  chamber  or  the  street, 
As  she  looks  among  the  blest, 
Should  I  fear  to  greet  my  friend 
Or  to  say  "forgive  the  wrong," 
Or  to  ask  her,  "  take  me  sweet, 
To  the  regions  of  thy  rest  f " 

13. 

But  the  broad  light  glares  and  beats, 

And  the  shadow  flits  and  fleets 

And  will  not  let  me  be; 

And  I  loathe  the  squares  and  streets, 

And  the  faces  that  one  meets, 

Hearts  with  no  love  for  me: 

Always  I  long  to  creep 

Into  some  still  cavern  deep, 

There  to  weep,  and  weep,  and  weep 

My  whole  soul  out  to  thee. 

XXVII. 


DEAD,  long  dead, 

Long  dead ! 

And  my  heart  is  a  handful  of  dust, 

And  the  wheels  go  over  my  head, 

And  my  bones  are  shaken  with  pain, 

For  into  a  shallow  grave  they  are  thrust, 

Only  a  yard  beneath  the  street, 

And  the  hoofs  of  the  horses  beat,  beat, 

The  hoofs  of  the  horses  beat, 

Beat  into  my  scalp  and  my  brain, 

With  never  an  end  to  the  stream  of  passing  feet, 

Driving,  hurrying,  marrying,  burying, 

Clamor  and  rumble,  and  ringing  and  clatter, 

And  here  beneath  it  is  all  as  bad, 

For  I  thought  the  dead  had  peace,  but  it  is  not  so; 

To  have  no  peace  in  the  grave,  is  that  not  sad  ? 

But  up  and  down  and  to  and  fro, 

Ever  about  me  the  dead  men  go ; 

And  then  to  hear  a  dead  man  chatter 

Is  enough  to  drive  one  mad. 

2. 

Wretchedest  age,  since  Time  began, 

They  cannot  even  bury  a  man ; 

And  tho'  we  paid  our  tithes  in  the  days  that  are  gone, 

Not  a  bell  was  rung,  not  a  prayer  was  read ; 

It  is  that  which  makes  us  loud  in  the  world  of  the 

dead ; 

There  is  none  that  does  his  work,  not  one ; 
A  touch  of  their  office  might  have  sufficed, 
But  the  churchmen  fain  would  kill  their  church, 
As  the  churches  have  kill'd  their  Christ. 


MAUD. 


141 


3. 

See,  there  is  one  of  us  sobbing,  • 

No  limit  to  his  distress; 

And  another,  a  lord  of  all  things,  praying 

To  bis  own  great  self,  as  I  guess ; 

And  another,  a  statesman  there,  betraying 

His  party-secret,  fool,  to  the  press ; 

And  yonder  a  vile  physician,  blabbing 

The  case  of  his  patient, — all  for  what  ? 

To  tickle  the  maggot  born  in  an  empty  head, 

And  wheedle  a  world  that  loves  him  not, 

For  it  is  but  a  world  of  the  dead. 

4. 

Nothing  but  idiot  gabble  ! 

For  the  prophecy  given  of  old 

And  then  not  understood, 

Has  come  to  pass  as  foretold ; 

Not  let  any  man  think  for  the  public  good, 

But  babble,  merely  for  babble. 

For  I  never  whisper'd  a  private  affair 

Within  the  hearing  of  cat  or  mouse, 

No,  not  to  myself  in  the  closet  alone, 

But  I  heard  it  shouted  at  once  from  the  top  of  the 

house ; 

Everything  came  to  be  known : 
Who  told  him  we  were  there? 

5. 

Not  that  gray  old  wolf,  for  he  came  not  back 
From  the  wilderness,  full  of  wolves,  where  he  used 

to  lie ; 
He  has  gather'd  the  bones  for  his  o'ergrown  whelp 

to  crack; 
Ciack  them  now  for  yourself,  and  howl,  and  die. 

6. 

Prophet,  curse  me  the  blabbing  lip, 

And  curse  me  the  British  vermin,  the  rat ; 

I  know  not  whether  he  came  in  the  Hanover  ship, 

But  I  know  that  he  lies  and  listens  mute 

In  an  ancient  mansion's  crannies  and  holes: 

Arsenic,  arsenic,  sure,  would  do  it, 

Except  that  now  we  poison  our  babes,  poor  souls  ? 

It  is  all  used  up  for  that. 


Tell  him  now:  she  is  standing  here  at  my  head; 

Not  beautiful  now,  not  even  kind ; 

He  may  take   her  now;   for  she  never  speaks  her 

mind, 

But  is  ever  the  one  thing  silent  here. 
She  is  not  of  us,  as  I  divine ; 
She  comes  from  another  stiller  world  of  the  dead, 
Stiller,  not  fairer  than  mine. 

8. 

But  I  know  where  a  garden  grow?, 
Fairer  than  aught  in  the  world  beside, 
All  made  up  of  the  lily  and  rose 
That  blow  by  night,  when  the  season  is  good, 
To  the  sound  of  dancing  music  and  flutes: 
It  is  only  flowers,  they  had  no  fruits, 
And  I  almost  fear  they  are  not  roses,  but  blood ; 
For  the  keeper  was  one,  so  full  of  pride, 
He  linkt  a  dead  man  there  to  a  spectral  bride ; 
For  he,  if  he  had  not  been  a  Sultan  of  brutes, 
Would  he  have  that  hole  in  his  side? 

9. 

But  what  will  the  old  man  say  ? 

He  laid  a  cruel  snare  in  a  pit 

To  catch  a  friend  of  mine  one  stormy  day ; 

Yet  now  I  could  even  weep  to  think  of  it ; 

For  what  will  the  old  man  say 

When  he  comes  to  the  second  corpse  in  the  pit  T 


10. 

Friend,  to  be  struck  by  the  public  foe, 
Then  to  strike  him  and  lay  him  low, 
That  were  a  public  merit,  far, 
Whatever  the  Quaker  holds,  from  sin ; 
But  the  red  life  spilt  for  a  private  blow — 
I  swear  to  you,  lawful  and  lawless  war 
Are  scarcely  even  akin. 

11. 

0  me,  why  have  they  not  buried  mo  deep  enougn  ? 
Is  it  kind  to  have  made  me  a  grave  so  rough, 
Me,  that  was  never  a  quiet  sleeper? 

Maybe  still  I  am  but  half-dead ; 
Then  I  cannot  be  wholly  dumb ; 

1  will  cry  to  the  steps  above  my  head, 

And  somebody,  surely,  some  kind  heart  w;ll  come 
To  bury  me,  bury  me 
Deeper,  ever  so  little  deeper. 

XXVIII. 
1. 

MY  life  has  crept  so  long  on  a  broken  wing 
Thro'  cells  of  madness,  haunts  of  horror  and  fear, 
That  I  come  to  be  grateful  at  last  for  a  little  thing: 
My  mood  is  changed,  for  it  fell  at  a  time  of  year 
When  the  face  of  night  is  fair  on  the  dewy  downs, 
And  the  shining  daffodil  dies,  and  the  Charioteer 
And  starry  Gemini  hang  like  glorious  crowns 
Over  Orion's  grave  low  down  in  the  west, 
That  like  a  silent  lightning  under  the  stars 
She  seem'd  to  divide  in  a  dream  from  a  band  ol  the 

blest, 
And  spoke  of  a  hope  for  the  world  in  the  coming 

wars — 

"And  in  that  hope,  dear  sonl,  let  trouble  have  rest, 
Knowing  I  tarry  for  thee,"  and  pointed  to  Mars 
As  he  glow'd  like   a  ruddy  shield  on  the  Lion's 

breast. 

2. 

And  it  was  but  a  dream,  yet  it  yielded  a  dear  de- 
light 
To  have  look'd,  tho'  but  in  a  dream,  upon  eyes  so 

fair, 

That  had  been  in  a  weary  world  my  one  thing  bright ; 
And  it  was  but  a  dream,  yet  it  lighten'd  my  despair 
When  I  thought  that  a  war  would  arise  in  defence 

of  the  right, 

That  an  iron  tyranny  now  should  bend  or  cease, 
The  glory  of  manhood  stand  on  his  ancient  height, 
Nor  Britain's  one  sole  God  be  the  millionnaire : 
No  more  shall  commerce  be  all  in  all,  and  Peace 
Pipe  on  her  pastoral  hillock  a  languid  note, 
And  watch  her  harvest  ripen,  her  herd  increase, 
Nor  the  cannon-bullet  rust  on  a  slothful  share, 
And  the  cobweb  woven  across  the  cannon's  throat 
Shall  shake  its  threaded  tears  in  the  wind  no  more. 

3. 

And  as  months  ran  on  and  rumor  of  battle  grew. 
"It  is  time,  it  is  time,  O  passionate  heart,"  said  I 
(For  I  cleaved  to  a  cause  that  I  felt  to  be  pure  and 

true), 

"It  is  time,  O  passionate  heart  and  morbid  eye, 
That  old  hysterical  mock-disease  should  die." 
And  I  stood  on  a  giant  deck  and  mix'd  my  breath 
With  a  loyal  people  shouting  a  battle  cry, 
Till  I  saw  the  dreary  phantom  arise  and  fly 
Far  into  the  North,  and  battle,  and  seas  of  death. 

4. 

Let  it  go  or  stay,  so  I  wake  to  the  higher  aims 
Of  a  land  that  has  lost  for  a  little  her  lust  of  gold, 
And  love  of  a  peace  that  was  full  of  wrongs  and 
shames, 


142 


THE  BROOK. 


Horrible,  hateful,  monstrous,  not  to  be  told ; 
And  hail  once  more  to  the  banner  of  battle  unroll'd ! 
Tho'  many  a  light  shall  darken,  and  many  shall  weep 
For  those  that  are  crush'd  iu  the  clash  of  jarring 

claims, 
Yet  God's  just  wrath   shall  he  wreak'd  on  a  giant 

liar; 

And  many  a  darkness  into  the  light  shall  leap 
And  shine  in  the  sudden  making  of  splendid  names, 
And  noble  thought  be  freer  under  the  sun, 
And  the  heart  of  a  people  beat  with  one  desire ; 
For  the  peace,  that  I  deem'd  no  peace,  is  over  and 

done, 
And  now  by  the  side  of  the  Black  and  the  Baltic 

deep, 

And  deathfnl-grinning  months  of  the  fortress,  flames 
The  blood-red  blossom  of  war  with  a  heart  of  fire. 

5. 

Let  it  flame  or  fade,  and  the  war  roll  down  like  a 

wind, 
We  have  proved  we  have  hearts  in  a  cause,  we  are 

noble  still, 
And  .myself  have  awaked,  as  it  seems,  to  the  better 

mind ; 
It  is  better  to  fight  for  the  good,  than  to  rail  at  the 

ill; 
I  have  felt  with  my  native  land,  I  am  one  with  my 

kind, 

I  embrace  the  purpose  of  God,  and  the  doom  as- 
' 


THE  BROOK ; 

AN   IDYL. 

•'HEBE,  by  this  brook,  we  parted;  I  to  the  East 
And  he  for  Italy— too  late— too  late: 
One  whom  the  strong  sons  of  the  world  despise ; 
For  lucky  rhymes  to  him  were  scrip  and  share, 
And  mellow  metres  more  than  cent  for  cent ; 
Nor  could  he  understand  how  money  breeds, 
Thought  it  a  dead  thing ;  yet  himself  could  make 
The  thing  that  is  not  as  the  thing  that  is. 

0  had  he  lived !    In  our  school-books  we  say, 
Of  those  that  held  their  heads  above  the  crowd, 
They  flourish'd  then  or  then ;  but  life  in  him 
Could  scarce  be  said  to  flourish,  only  touch'd 
On  such  a  time  as  goes  before  the  leaf, 
When  all  the  wood  stands  in  a  mist  of  green, 
And  nothing  perfect :  yet  the  brook  he  loved, 
For  which,  in  branding  summers  of  Bengal, 

Or  ev'n  the  sweet  half-English  Neilgherry  air, 

1  panted,  seems,  as  I  re-listen  to  it, 
Prattling  the  primrose  fancies  of  the  boy, 

To  me  that  loved  him;  for  'O  brook,'  he  says, 
'O  babbling  brook,'  says  Edmund  in  his  rhyme, 
1  Whence  come  you  ?'  and  the  brook,  why  not  ?  re- 
plies. 

I  come  from  haunts  of  coot  and  hern, 

I  make  a  sudden  sally 
And  sparkle  out  among  the  fern, 

To  bicker  down  a  valley. 

By  thirty  hills  I  hnrry  down, 

Or  slip  between  the  ridges, 
By  twenty  thorps,  a  little  town, 

And  half  a  hundred  bridges. 

Till  last  by  Philip's  farm  I  flow 

To  join  the  brimming  river, 
For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 

But  I  go  on  forever. 

"Poor  lad,  he  died  at  Florence,  quite  worn  out, 
Travelling  to  Naples.    There  is  Darnley  bridge, 
It  ha,s  more  ivy;  there  the  river;  and  there 
Stands  Philip's  farm  where  brook  and  river  meet. 


I  chatter  over  stony  ways, 

In  little  sharps  and  trebles, 
I  bubble  into  eddying  bays, 

I  babble  on  the  pebbles. 

With  many  a  curve  my  banks  I  fret 

By  many  a  field  and  fallow, 
And  many  a  fairy  foreland  set 

With  willow-weed  and  mallow. 

1  chatter,  chatter,  as  I  flow 

To  join  the  brimming  river, 
For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 

But  I  go  on  forever. 

"But  Philip  chatter'd  more  than  brook  or  bird; 
Old  Philip;  all  about  the  fields  you  caught 

His  weary  daylong  chirping,  like  the  dry 
High-elbow'd  grigs  that  leap  in  summer  grass. 

I  wind  about,  and  in  and  out, 

With  here  a  blossom  sailing, 
And  here  and  there  a  lusty  trout, 

And  here  and  there  a  grayling, 

And  here  and  there  a  foamy  flake 

Upon  me,  as  I  travel 
With  many  a  silvery  waterbreak 

Above  the  golden  gravel, 

And  draw  them  all  along,  and  flow 

To  join  the  brimming  river, 
For  men  may  -come  and  men  may  go, 

But  I  go  on  forever. 

"O  darling  Katie  Willows,  his  one  child! 
A  maiden  of  our  century,  yet  most  meek ; 
A  daughter  of  our  meadows,  yet  not  coarse ; 
Straight,  but  us  lissome  as  a  hazel  wand ; 
Her  eyes  a  bashful  azure,  and  her  hair 
In  gloss  and  hue  the  chestnut,  when  the  shell 
Divides  threefold  to  show  the  fruit  within. 

"  Sweet  Katie,  once  I  did  her  a  good  torn, 
Her  and  her  far-off  cousin  and  betrothed, 
James  Willows,  of  one  name  and  heart  with  her. 
For  here  I  came,  twenty  years  back, — the  week 
Befofe  I  parted  with  poor  Edmund;  crost 
By  that  old  bridge  which,  half  in  ruins  then, 
Still  makes  a  hoary  eyebrow  for  the  gleam 
Beyond  it,  where  the  waters  marry— crost, 
Whistling  a  random  bar  of  Bonny  Boon, 
And  push'd  at  Philip's  garden-gate.    The  gate, 
Half-parted  from  a  weak  and  scolding  hinge, 
Stuck;  and  he  clamor'd  from  a  casement,  'run' 
To  Katie  somewhere  in  the  walks  below, 
'  Run,  Katie  !'  Katie  never  ran  :  she  moved 
To  meet  me,  winding  under  woodbine  bowers, 
A  little  flutter'd  with  her  eyelids  down, 
Fresh  apple-blossom,  blushing  for  a  boon. 

"What  was  it?  less  of  sentiment  than  sense 
Had  Katie ;  not  illiterate ;  neither  one 
Who  babbling  in  the  fount  of  fictive  tears, 
And  nursed  by  mealy-mouthed  philanthropies, 
Divorce  the  Feeling  from  her  mate  the  Deed. 

"She  told  me.    She  and  James  had  quarrell'd, 

Why? 

What  cause  of  quarrel  ?    None,  she  said,  no  cause ; 
James  had  no  cause :  but  when  I  prest  the  cause, 
I  learnt  that  James  had  flickering  jealousies 
Which  anger'd  her.    Who  anger'd  James?    I  said. 
But  Katie  snatch'd  her 'eyes  at  once  from  mine, 
And  sketching  with  her  slender-pointed  foot 
Some  figure  like  a  wizard's  pentagram 
On  garden  gravel,  let  my  query  pass 
Unclaim'd,  in  flushing  silence,  till  I  ask'd 


THE  LETTERS. 


143 


f  f  James  were  coming.    '  Coming  every  day,' 

She  answer'd,  'ever  longing  to  explain, 

But  evermore  her  father  came  across 

With  some  long-winded  tale,  and  broke  him  short 

And  James  departed  vest  with  him  and  her.' 

How  could  I  help  her  ?    •  Would  I— was  it  wrong  f ' 

(Claspt  hands  and  that  petitionary  grace 

Of  sweet  seventeen  subdued  me  ere  she  spoke) 

'  O  would  I  take  her  father  for  one  hour, 

For  one  half-hoar,  and  let  him  talk  to  me !' 

And  even  while  she  spoke,  I  saw  where  James 

Made  towards  us,  like  a  wader  in  the  surf, 

Beyond  the  brook,  waist-deep  in  meadow-sweet 

"  O  Katie,  what  I  snffer'd  for  your  sake ! 
For  in  I  went  and  call'd  old  Philip  out 
To  show  the  farm :  full  willingly  he  rose : 
He  led  me  thro'  the  short  sweet-smelling  lanes 
Of  his  wheat  suburb,  babbling  as  he  went 
He  praised  his  land,  his  horses,  his  machines ; 
He  praised  his  ploughs,  his  cows,  his  hogs,  his  dogs 
He  praised  his  hens,  his  geese,  his  guinea-hens ; 
His  pigeons,  who  in  session  on  their  roofs 
Approved  him,  bowing  at  their  own  deserts: 
Then  from  the  plaintive  mother's  teat,  he  took 
Her  blind  and  shuddering  puppies,  naming  each, 
And  naming  those,  his  friends,  for  whom  they  were: 
Then  crost  the  common  into  Darnley  chase 
To  show  Sir  Arthur's  deer.    In  copse  and  fern 
Twinkled  the  innumerable  ear  and  tail. 
Then,  seated  on  a  serpent-rooted  beech, 
He  pointed  out  a  pasturing  colt,  and  said  : 
'That  was  the  four-year-old  I  sold  the  squire,' 
And  there  he  told  a  long,  long-winded  tale 
Of  how  the  squire  had  seen  the  colt  at  grass, 
And  how  it  was  the  thing  his  daughter  wish'd, 
And  how  he  sent  the  bailiff  to  the  farm 
To  learn  the  price,  and  what  the  price  he  ask'd, 
And  how  the  bailiff  swore  that  he  was  mad, 
But  he  stood  firm;  and  so  the  matter  hung; 
He  gave  them  line:  and  five  days  after  that 
He  met  the  bailiff  at  the  Golden  Fleece, 
Who  then  and  there  had  offer'd  something  more, 
But  he  stood  firm;  and  so  the  matter  hung; 
He  knew  the  man ;  the  colt  would  fetch  its  price ; 
He  gave  them  line:  and  how  by  chance  at  last 
(It  might  be  May  or  April,  he  forgot, 
The  last  of  April  or  the  first  of  May) 
He  found  the  bailiff  riding  by  the  farm, 
And,  talking  from  the  point,  he  drew  him  in, 
And  there  he  mellow'd  all  his  heart  with  ale, 
Until  they  closed  a  bargain,  hand  in  hand. 

"Then,  while  I  breathed  in  sight  of  haven,  he, 
Poor  fellow,  could  he  help  it?  recommenced, 
And  ran  thro'  all  the  coltish  chronicle, 
Wild  Will,  Black  Bess,  Tantivy,  Tallyho, 
Keform,  White  Rose,  Bellerophon,  the  Jilt, 
Arbaces  and  Phenomenon,  and  the  rest, 
Till,  not  to  die  a  listener,  I  arose, 
And  with  me  Philip,  talking  still ;  and  so 
We  tnrn'd  our  foreheads  from  the  falling  sun, 
And  following  our  own  shadows  thrice  as  long 
As  when  they  follow'd  us  from  Philip's  door, 
Arrived,  and  found  the  sun  of  sweet  content 
Re-risen  in  Katie's  eyes,  and  all  things  well. 

I  steal  by  lawns  and  grassy  plots, 

I  slide  by  hazel  covers; 
I  move  the  sweet  forget-me-nots  . 

That  grow  for  happy  lovers. 

I  slip,  I  slide,  I  gloom,  I  glance, 
Among  my  skimming  swallows; 

I  make  the  netted  sunbeam  dance 
Against  my  sandy  shallows. 

I  mnrmnr  under  moon  and  stars 
In  brambly  wildernesses; 


I  linger  by  my  shingly  bars ; 
I  loiter  round  my  cresses ; 

And  out  again  I  curve  and  flow 

To  join  the  brimming  river, 
For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 

But  I  go  on  forever. 

Yes,  men  may  come  and  go ;  and  these  are  gone, 

All  gone.    My  dearest  brother,  Edmund,  sleeps, 

Not  by  the  well-known  stream  and  rustic  spire, 

But  unfamiliar  Arno,  and  the  dome 

Of  Brunelleschi ;  sleeps  in  peace  :»and  he, 

Poor  Philip,  of  all  his  lavish  waste  of  words 

Remains  the  lean  P.  W.  on  his  tomb : 

I  scraped  the  lichen  from  it:  Katie  walks 

By  the  long  wash  of  Australasian  seas 

Far  off,  and  holds  her  head  to  other  stars, 

And  breathes  in  converse  seasons.    All  are  gone." 

So  Lawrence  Aylmer,  seated  on  a  stile 
In  the  long  hedge,  and  rolling  in  his  mind 
Old  waifs  of  rhyme,  and  bowing  o'er  the  brook 
A  tonsured  head  in  middle  age  forlorn, 
Mused,  and  was  mute.    On  a  sudden  a  low  breath 
Of  tender  air  made  tremble  in  the  hedge  ' 
The  fragile  bindweed-bells  and  briouy  rings ; 
And  he  look'd  up.    There  stood  a  maiden  near, 
Waiting  to  pass.    In  much  amaze  He  stared 
On  eyes  a  bashful  azure,  and  on  hair 
In  gloss  and  hue  the  chestnut,  when  the  shell 
Divides  threefold  to  show  the  fruit  within : 
Then,   wondering,  ask'd  her,   "Are  you  from  the 

farm?" 
"Yes,"  answer'd  she.    "Pray  stay  a  little:  pardon 

me; 
What  do  they  call  you?"    "Katie."    "That  were 

strange. 
What,  surname?"    "Willows."     "No!"     "That  is 

my  name." 

"  Indeed !"  and  here  he  look'd  so  self-perplext, 
That  Katie  laugh'd,  and  laughing  blush'd,  till  he 
Langh'd  also,  but  as  one  before  he  wakes, 
Who  feels  a  glimmering  strangeness  in  his  dream. 
Then  looking  at  her;  "Too  happy,  fresh  and  fair, 
Too  fresh  and  fair  in  our  sad  world's  best  bloom, 
To  be  the  ghost  of  one  who  bore  your  name 
About  these  meadows,  twenty  years  ago." 

"Have  you  not  heard?''  said  Katie,  "we  came 

back. 

We  bought  the  farm  we  tenanted  before. 
Am  I  so  like  her?  so  they  said  on  board. 
Sir,  if  you  knew  her  in  her  English  days, 
My  mother,  as  it  seems  you  did,  the  days 
That  most  she  loves  to  talk  of,  come  with  m*. 
My  brother  James  is  in  the  harvest-field : 
But  she— you  will  be  welcome— O,  come  in  I" 


THE  LETTERS. 

1. 

STILL  on  the  tower  stood  the  vane, 

A  black  yew  gloom'd  the  stagnant  air, 
I  peer'd  athwart  the  chancel  pane 

And  saw  the  altar  cold  and  bare. 
A  clog  of  lead  was  round  my  feet, 

A  band  of  pain  across  my  brow  ; 
"  Cold  altar,  Heav«n  and  earth  shall  meet 

Before  you  hear  my  marriage  vow." 

2. 
I  turn'd  and  humm'd  a  bitter  song 

That  mock'd  the  wholesome  human  heart, 
And  then  we  met  in  wrath  and  wrong, 

We  met,  but  only  meant  to  part 


144 


ODE  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  DUKE  OF  WELLINGTON. 


Full  cold  my  greeting  was  arid  dry ; 

She  faintly  smiled,  she  hardly  moved ; 
I  saw  with  half-uncouscions  eye 

She  wore  the  colors  I  approved. 

3. 

She  took  the  little  ivory  chest, 

With  half  a  sigh  she  turn'd  the  key, 
Then  raised  her  head  with  lips  comprest, 

And  gave  my  letters  back  to  me. 
And  gave  the  trinkets  and  the  rings, 

My  gifts,  wh,en  gifts  of  mine  could  please ; 
As  looks  a  father  on  the  things 

Of  his  dead  son,  I  look'd  on  these. 

4. 

She  told  me  all  her  friends  had  said ; 

I  raged  against  the  public  liar; 
She  talk'd  as  if  her  love  were  dead, 

But  in  my  words  were  seeds  of  fire. 
"No  more  of  love;  your  sex  is  known: 

I  never  will  be  twice  deceived. 
Henceforth  I  trust  the  man  alone, 

The  woman  canuot  be  believed. 

5. 

"  Thro'  slander,  meanest  spawn  of  Hell 

(And  women's  slander  is  the  worst), 
And  you,  whom  once  I  lov'd  so  well, 

Thro'  you,  my  life  will  be  accurst." 
I  spoke  with  heart,  and  heat  and  force, 

I  shook  her  breast  with  vague  alarms — 
Like  torrents  from  a  mountain  source 

We  rush'd  into  each  other's  arms. 

C. 

We  parted :  sweetly  gleam'd  the  stars, 

And  sweet  the  vapor-braided  blue, 
Low  breezes  fann'd  the  belfry  bars, 

As  homeward  by  the  church  I  drew. 
The  very  graves  appear'd  to  smile, 

So  fresh  they  rose  in  shadow'd  swells ; 
"Dark  porch,"  I  said,  "and  silent  aisle, 

There  comes  a  sound  of  marriage  bells." 


ODE  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  DUKE 
OF  WELLINGTON. 

1. 
BURY  the  Great  Duke 

With  an  empire's  lamentation, 
Let  us  bnry  the  Great  Duke 

To  the  noise  of  the  mourning  of  a  mighty  nation, 
Mourning  when  their  leaders  fall, 
Warriors  carry  the  warrior's  pall, 
And  sorrow  darkens  hamlet  and  hall. 

2. 

Where  shall  we  lay  the  man  whom  we  deplore  ? 
Here,  in  streaming  London's  central  roar. 
Let  the  sound  of  those  he  wrought  for, 
And  the  feet  of  those  he  fought  for, 
Echo  round  his  bones  forevermore. 

3. 

Lead  out  the  pageant:  sad  and  slow, 

As  fits  an  universal  woe, 

Let  the  long  long  procession  go, 

And  let  the  sorrowing  crowd  about  it  grow, 

And  let  the  mournful  martial  music  blow; 

The  last  great  Englishman  is  low. 


4. 

Mourn,  for  to  us  he  seems  the  last, 
Remembering  all  his  greatness  in  the  Past. 
No  more  in  soldier  fashion  will  he  greet 
With  lifted  hand  the  gazer  in  the  street. 
O  friends,  our  chief  state-oracle  is  dead : 
Mourn  for  the  man  of  long-enduring  blood, 
The  statesman-warrior,  moderate,  resolute, 
Whole  in  himself,  a  common  good. 
Mourn  for  the  man  of  amplest  influence, 
Yet  clearest  of  ambitious  crime, 
Our  greatest  yet  with  least  pretence, 
Great  in  council  and  great  in  war, 
Foremost  captain  of  his  time, 
Rich  in  saving  common-sense, 
And,  as  the  greatest  only  are, 
In  his  simplicity  sublime. 
O  good  gray  head  which  all  men  knew, 
O  voice  from  which  their  omens  all  men  drew, 
O  iron  nerve  to  true  occasion  true, 
O  fall'ii  at  length  that  tower  of  strength 
Which  stood  four-square  to  all  the  winds  that  blew  I 
Such  was  he  whom  we  deplore. 
The  long  self-sacrifice  of  life  is  o'er. 
The  great  World-victor's  victor  will  be  seen  no  more. 

5. 

All  is  over  and  done: 

Render  thanks  to  the  Giver, 

England,  for  thy  son. 

Let  the  bell  be  toll'd. 

Render  thanks  to  the  Giver, 

And  render  him  to  the  mould. 

Under  the  cross  of  gold 

That  shines  over  city  and  river, 

There  he  shall  rest  forever 

Among  the  wise  and  the  bold. 

Let  the  bell  be  toll'd: 

And  a  reverent  people  behold 

The  towering  car,  the  sable  steeds: 

Bright  let  it  be  with  his  blazon'd  deeds, 

Dark  in  its  funeral  fold. 

Let  the  bell  be  tolled : 

And  a  deeper  knell  in  the  heart  be  knoll'd; 

And  the  sound  of  the  sorrowing  anthem  roll'd 

Thro'  the  dome  of  the  golden  cross ; 

And  the  volleying  cannon  thunder  his  loss; 

He  knew  their  voices  of  old. 

For  many  a  time  in  many  a  clime 

His  captain's-ear  has  heard  them  boom 

Bellowing  victory,  bellowing  doom ; 

When  he  with  those  deep  voices  wrought, 

Guarding  realms  and  kings  from  shame; 

With  those  deep  voices  our  dead  captain  taught 

The  tyrant,  and  asserts  his  claim 

In  that  dread  sound  to  the  great  name, 

Which  he  has  worn  so  pure  of  blame, 

In  praise  and  in  dispraise  the  same, 

A  man  of  well-attemper'd  frame. 

O  civic  muse,  to  such  a  name, 

To  such  a  name  for  ages  long, 

To  such  a  name, 

Preserve  a  broad  approach  of  fame, 

And  ever-ringing  avenues  of  song. 

6. 

Who  is  he  that  cometh,  like  an  honor'd  guest, 
With  banner  and  with  music,  with  soldier  and  with 

priest, 

With  a  nation  weeping,  and  breaking  on  my  rest? 
Mighty  seaman,  this  is  he 
Was  great  by  land  as  thou  by  sea. 
Thine  island  loves  thee  well,  thou  famous  man, 
The  greatest  sailor  since  our  world  began. 
Now,  to  the  roll  of  muffled  drums, 
To  thee  the  greatest  soldier  comes ; 
For  this  is  he 


ODE  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  DUKE  OF  WELLINGTON. 


145 


Was  great  by  land  as  thou  by  sea; 

His  foes  were  thine ;  he  kept  us  free 

O  give  him  weicome,  this  is  he, 

Worthy  of  our  gorgeous  rites, 

And  worthy  to  be  laid  by  thee; 

For  this  is  England's -greatest  son, 

He  that  gain'd  a  hundred  fights, 

Nor  ever  lost  an  English  gun ; 

This  is  he  that  far  away 

Against  the  myriads  of  Assaye 

Clash'd  with  his  flery  few  and  won; 

And  underneath  another  sun, 

Warring  on  a  later  day, 

Round  affrighted  Lisbon  drew 

The  treble  works,  the  vast  designs 

Of  his  labor'd  rampart-lines, 

Where  he  greatly  stood  at  bay, 

Whence  he  issued  forth  anew, 

And  ever  great  and  greater  grew, 

Beating  from  the  wasted  vines 

Back  to  France  her  banded  swarms, 

Back  to  France  with  cbniitless  blows, 

Till  o'er  the  hills  her  eagles  flew 

Past  the  Pyrenean  pines, 

Follow'd  up  in  valley  and  glen 

With  blare  of  bugle,  clamor  of  men, 

Eoll  of  cannon  and  clash  of  arms, 

And  England  pouring  on  her  foes. 

Such  a  war  had  such  a  close. 

Again  their  ravening  eagle  rose 

In  anger,  wheel'd  on  Europe-shadowing  wings, 

And  barking  for  the  thrones  of  kings ; 

Till  one  that  sought  but  Duty's  iron  crown 

On  that  loud  sabbath  shook  the  spoiler  down ; 

A  day  of  on&ets  of  despair ! 

Dash'd  on  every  rocky  square 

Their  surging  charges  foam'd  themselves  away ; 

Last,  the  Prussian  trumpet  blew ; 

Thro'  the  long-tormented  air 

Heaven  flash'd  a  sudden  jubilant  ray. 

And  down  we  swept  and  charged  and  overthrew. 

So  great  a  soldier  taught  us  there, 

What  long-enduring  hearts  could  do 

In  that  world's-earthquake,  Waterloo .' 

Mighty  seaman,  tender  and  true, 

And  pure  as  he  from  taint  of  craven  guile, 

O  saviour  of  the  silver-coasted  isle, 

O  shaker  of  the  Baltic  and  the  Nile, 

If  aught  of  things  that  here  befall 

Touch  a  spirit  among  things  divine, 

If  love  of  country  move  thee  there  at  all, 

Be  glad,  because  his  bones  are  laid  by  thine ! 

And  thro'  the  centuries  let  a  people's  voice 

In  full  acclaim, 

A  people's  voice, 

The  proof  and  echo  of  all  human  fame, 

A  people's  voice,  when  they  rejoice 

At  civic  revel  and  pomp  and  game, 

Attest  their  great  commander's  claim 

With  honor,  honor,  honor  to  him, 

Eternal  honor  to  his  name. 

7. 

A  people's  voice !  we  are  a  people  yet. 
Tho'  all  men  else  their  nobler  dreams  forget 
Confused  by  brainless  mobs  and  lawless  Powers ; 
Thank  Him  who  isled  us  here,  and  roughly  set 
His  Saxon  in  blown  seas  and  storming  showers, 
We  have  a  voice,  with  which  to  pay  the  debt 
Of  boundless  love  and  reverence  and  regret 
To  those  great  men  who  fought,  and  kept  it  ours. 
And  keep  it  ours,  O  God,  from  brute  control ; 
O  Statesmen,  guard  us,  guard  the  eye,  the  soul 
Of  Europe,  keep  our  noble  England  whole, 
And  save  the  one  true  seed  of  freedom  sown 
Betwixt  a  people  and  their  ancient  throne, 
That  sober  freedom  out  of  which  there  springs 
Our  loyal  passion  for  our  temperate  kings? 
10 


For,  saving  that,  ye  help  to  save  mankind 

Till  public  wrong  be  crumbled  into  dust, 

And  drill  the  raw  world  for  the  march  of  mind, 

Till  crowds  at  length  be  sane  and  crowns  be  just. 

But  wink  no  more  iu  slothful  overtrust 

Remember  him  who  led  your  hosts; 

He  bade  you  guard  the  sacred  coasts. 

Your  cannons  moulder  on  the  seaward  wall: 

His  voice  is  silent  in  your  council-hall 

Forever ;  and  whatever  tempests  lower 

Forever  silent;  even  if  they  broke 

In  thunder,  silent ;  yet  remember  all 

He  spoke  among  you,  'and  the  Man  who  spoke ; 

Who  never  sold  the  truth  to  serve  the  hour, 

Nor  palter'd  with  Eternal  God  for  power; 

Who  let  the  turbid  streams  of  rumor  flow 

Thro'  either  babbling  world  of  high  and  low ; 

Whose  life  was  work,  whose  language  rife 

With  rugged  maxims  hewn  from  life ; 

Who  never  spoke  against  a  foe; 

Whose  eighty  winters  freeze  with  one  rebuke 

All  great  self-seekers  trampling  on  the  right : 

Truth-teller  was  our  England's  Alfred  named ; 

Truth-lover  was  our  English  Duke  , 

Whatever  record  leap  to  light 

He  never  shall  be  shamed. 


Lo,  the  leader  in  these  glorious  wars 

Now  to  glorious  burial  slowly  borne, 

Follow'd  by  the  brave  of  other  lands, 

He,  on  whom  from  both  her  open  hands 

Lavish  Honor  shower'd  all  her  stars, 

And  affluent  Fortune  emptied  all  her  horn. 

Yea,  let  all  good  things  await 

Him  who  cares  not  to  be  great, 

But  as  he  saves  or  serves  the  state. 

Not  once  or  twice  in  our  rough  island-story, 

The  path  of  duty  was  the  way  to  glory : 

He  that  walks  it,  only  thirsting 

For  the  right,  and  learns  to  deaden 

Love  of  self,  before  his  joilrney  closes, 

He  shall  find  the  stubborn  thistle  bursting 

Into  glossy  purples,  which  outreddeii 

All  voluptuous  garden-roses. 

Not  once  or  twice  in  our  fair  island-story, 

The  path  of  duty  was  the  way  to  glory : 

He,  that  ever  following  her  commands, 

On  'with  toil  of  heart  and  knees  and  hands, 

Thro'  the  long  gorge  to  the  far  light  has  won 

His  path  upward,  and  prevail'd, 

Shall  find  the  toppling  crags  of  Duty  scaled 

Are  close  upon  the  shining  table-lands 

To  which  our  God  Himself  is  moon  and  sun. 

Such  was  he:  his  work  is  done. 

But  while  the  races  of  mankind  endure, 

Let  his  great  example  stand 

Colossal,  seen  of  every  land, 

And  keep  the  soldier  firm,  the  statesman  pure ; 

Till  in  all  lands  and  thro'  all  human  story 

The  path  of  duty  be  the  way  to  glory : 

And  let  the  land  whose  hearths  he  saved  from  shame 

For  many  and  many  an  age  proclaim 

At  civic  revel  and  pomp  and  game, 

And  when  the  long-illumined  cities  flame, 

Their  ever-loyal  iron  leader's  fame, 

With  honor,  honor,  honor,  honor  to  him, 

Eternal  honor  to  his  name. 


Peace,  his  triumph  will  be  sung 

By  some  yet  unmoulded  tongue 

Far  on  in  summers  that  we  shall  not  s 

Peace,  it  is  a  day  of  pain 

For  one  about  whose  patriarchal  knee 

Late  the  little  children  clung: 

O  peace,  it  is  a  day  of  pain 


THE  DAISY. 


For  one  upon  whose  hand  and  heart  and  brain 
Once  the  weight  and  fate  of  Europe  hung. 
Ours  the  pain,  be  his  the  gain ! 
More  than  is  of  man's  degree 
Must  be  with  ns,  watching  here 
At  this,  our  great  solemnity. 
Whom  we  see  not  we  revere. 
We  revere,  and  we  refrain 
From  talk  of  battles  loud  and  vain, 
And  brawling  memories  all  too  free 
For  such  a  wise  humility 
As  befits  a  solemn  fane: 
We  revere,  and  while  we  heat 
The  tides  of  Music's  golden  sea 
Setting  toward  eternity, 
Uplifted  high  in  heart  and  hope  are  we, 
Until  we  doubt  not  that  for  one  so  true 
There  must  be  other  nobler  work  to  do 
Than  when  he  fought  at  Waterloo, 
And  Victor  he  must  ever  be. 
For  tho'  the  Giant  Ages  heave  the  hill 
And  break  the  shore,  and  evermore 
Make  and  break,  and  work  their  will ; 
Tho'  world  on  world  in  myriad  myriads  roll 
Kotrad  jas,  each  with  different  powers, 
And  other  forms  of  life  than  ours, 
What  know  we  greater  than  the  soul? 
On  God  and  Godlike  men  we  build  onr  trust 
Hush,  the  Dead  March  wails  in  the  people's  ears: 
The  dark  crowd  moves,  and  there  are  sobs  and  tears : 
The  black  earth  yawns :  the  mortal  disappears ; 
Ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust ; 
He  is  gone  who  seem'd  so  great. — 
Gone ;  but  nothing  can  bereave  him 
Of  the  force  he  made  his  own 
Being  here,  and  we  believe  him 
Something  far  advanced  in  state, 
And  that  he  wears  a  truer  crown 
Than  any  wreath  that  man  can  weave  Mm. 
But  speak  no  more  of  his  renown, 
Lay  your  earthly  fancies  down, 
And  in  the  vast  cathedral  leave  him. 
God  accept  him,  Christ  receive  him. 
1S52. 


THE    DAISY. 

WRITTEN   AT   EDINBURGH. 

O  LOVE,  what  hours  were  thine  and  mine, 
In  lands  of  palm  and  southern  pine ; 

In  lands  of  palm,  of  orange-blossom, 
Of  olive,  aloe,;. and  maize  and  vine. 

What  Roman  strength  Turbia  show'd 
In  ruin,  by  the  mountain  road ; 

How  like  a  gem,  beneath,  the  city 
Of  little  Monaco,  basking,  glow'd. 

How  richly  down  the  rocky  dell 
The  torrent  vineyard  streaming  fell 

To  meet  the  sun  and  sunny  waters, 
That  only  heaved  with  a  summer  swell. 

What  slender  campanili  grew 

By  bays,  the  peacock's  neck  in  hue; 

Where,  here  and  there,  on  sandy  beaches 
A  milky-bell'd  amaryllis  blew. 

How  young  Columbus  seem'd  to  rove, 
Yet  present  in  his  natal  grove, 

Now  watching  high  on  mountain  cornice, 
And  steering,  now,  from  a  purple  cove, 

Now  pacing  mute  by  ocean's  rim; 
Till,  in  a  narrow  street  and  dim, 

I  stay'd  the  wheels  at  Cogoletto, 
And  drank,  and  loyally  drank  to  him. 


Nor  knew  we  well  what  pleased  us  most, 
Not  the  dipt  palm  of  which  they  boast; 

But  distant  color,  happy  hamlet, 
A  moulder'd  citadel  on  the  coast, 

Or  tower,  or  high  hill-convent,  seen 
A  light  amid  its  olives  green ; 

Or  olive-hoary  cape  in  ocean ; 
Or  rosy  blossom  in  hot  ravine, 

Where  oleanders  flush'd  the  bed 
Of  silent  torrents,  gravel-spread ; 

And,  crossing,  oft  we  saw  the  gliston 
Of  ice,  far  up  on  a  mountain  head. 

We  loved  that  hall,  tho'  white  and  cold, 
Those  niched  shapes  of  noble  mould, 

A  princely  people's  awful  princes, 
The  grave,  severe  Genovese  of  old. 

At  Florence  too  what  golden  hours, 
In  those  long  galleries,  were  ours  ; 

What  drives  about  the  fresh  Cascind, 
Or  walks  in  Boboli's  ducal  bowers. 

In  bright  vignettes,  and  each  complete, 
Of  tower  or  duomo,  sunny-sweet, 

Or  palace,  how  the  city  glitter'd, 
Thro'  cypress  avenues,  at  our  feet. 

But  when  we  crost  the  Lombard  plain 
Remember  what  a  plague  of  rain; 

Of  rain  at  Reggio,  rain  at  Parma ; 
At  Lodi,  rain,  Piacenza,  rain. 

And  stern  and  sad  (so  rare  the  smiles 
Of  sunlight)  look'd  the  Lombard  piles ; 

Porch-pillars  on  the  lion  resting, 
And  sombre,  old,  colonnaded  aisles. 

0  Milan,  O  the  chanting  quires, 
The  giant  windows'  blazon'd  fires,- 

The  height,  the  space,  the  gloom,  the  glory? 
A  mount  of  marble,  a  hundred  spires ! 

1  climb'd  the  roofs  at  break  of  day ; 
Sun-smitten  Alps  before  me  lay. 

I  stood  among  the  silent  statues, 
And  stained  pinnacles,  mute  as  they. 

How  faintly-flnsh'd,  how  phantom-fair, 
Was  Monte  Rosa,  hanging  there 

A  thousand  shadowy-peucill'd  valleys 
And  snowy  dells  in  a  golden  air. 

Remember  how  we  came  at  last 
To  Como;  shower  and  storm  and  blast 
Had  blown  the  lake  beyond  his  limit, 
And  all  was  flooded ;  and  how  we  past 

From  Como,  when  the  light  was  gray, 
And  in  my  head,  for  half  the  day, 
The  rich  Virgilian  rustic  measure 
Of  Lari  Maxume,  all  the  way, 

Like  ballad-burthen  music,  kept, 
As  on  the  Lariano  crept 

To  that  fair  port  below  the  castle 
Of  Queen  Theodolind,  where  we  slept ; 

Or  hardly  slept,  but  watch'd  awake 

A  cypress  in  the  moonlight  shake, 
The  moonlight  touching  o'er  a  terrace 
One  tall  Agav6  above  the  lake. 

What  more?  we  took  our  last  adien, 
And  up  the  snowy  Splugen  drew, 

But  ere  we  reach'd  the  highest  summit 
I  pluck'd  a  daisy,  I  gave  it  you. 


TO  THE  REV.  F.  D.  MAURICE.— THE  CHARGE  OF  THE  LIGHT  BRIGADE.    147 


It  told  of  England  then  to  me, 
And  now  it  tells  of  Italy. 

O  love,  we  two  shall  go  no  longer 
To  lands  of  summer  across  the  sea ; 

So  dear  a  life  your  arms  enfold 
Whose  crying  is  a  cry  for  gold : 

Yet  here  to-night  in  this  dark  city, 
When  ill  and  weary,  alone  and  cold, 

I  found,  tho'  crush'd  to  hard  and  dry, 
This  nurseling  of  another  sky 

Still  in  the  little  book  you  lent  me, 
And  where  you  tenderly  laid  it  by: 

And  I  forgot  the  clouded  Forth, 

The  gloom  that  saddens  Heaveii  and  Earth, 

The  bitter  east,  the  misty  summer 
And  gray  metropolis  of  the  North. 

Perchance,  to  lull  the  throbs  of  pain, 
Perchance,  to  charm  a  vacant  brain, 

Perchance,  to  dream  yon  still  beside  me, 
My  fancy  fled  to  the  South  again. 


TO  THE  REV.  F.  D.  3IAURICE. 

COME,  when  no  graver  cares  employ, 
God-father,  come  and  see  your  boy : 

Your  presence  will  be  sun  in  winter, 
Slaking  the  little  one  leap  for  joy. 

For,  being  of  that  honest  few, 
Who  give  the  Fiend  himself  his  due, 

Should  eighty  thousand  college  councils 
Thunder  "  Anathema,"  friend,  at  you  : 

Should  all  our  churchmen  foam  in  spite 
At  you,  so  careful  of  the  right, 

Yet  one  lay-hearth  would  give  you  welcome 
(Take  it  and  come)  to  the  Isle  of  Wight ; 

Where,  far  from  noise  and  smoke  of  town, 
I  watch  the  twilight  falling  brown 

All  round  a  careless-order'd  garden 
Close  to  the  ridge  of  a  noble  down. 

You'll  have  no  scandal  while  you  dine, 
But  honest  talk  and  wholesome  wine, 

And  only  hear  the  mag-pie  gossip 
Garrulous  under  a  roof  of  pine  : 

For  groves  of  pine  on  either  Jiaud, 
To  break  the  blast  of  winter,  stand ; 
And  further  on,  the  hoary  Channel 
Tumbles  a  breaker  on  chalk  and  sand; 

Where,  if  below  the  milky  steep 
Some  ship  of  battle  slowly  creep, 

And  on  thro'  zones  of  light  and  shadow 
Glimmer  away  to  the  lonely  deep, 

We  might  discuss  the  Northern  sin 
Which  made  a  selfish  war  begin; 
'  Dispute  the  claims,  arrange  the  chances ; 
Emperor,  Ottoman,  which  shall  win  : 

Or  whether  war's  avenging  rod 
Shall  lash  all  Europe  into  blood ; ' 

Till  you  should  turn  to  dearer  matters, 
Dear  to  the  man  that  is  dear  to  God ; 

How  best  to  help  the  slender  store, 
How  mend  the  dwellings,  of  the  poor ; 

How  gain  in  life,  as  life  advances, 
Valor  and  charity  more  and  more. 


Come,  Maurice,  come :  the  lawn  as  yet 
Is  hoar  with  rime,  or  spongy-wet ; 

But  when  the  wreath  of  March  has  blossom'd, 
Crocus,  anemone,  violet, 

Or  later,  pay  one  visit  here, 

For  those  are  few  we  hold  as  dear; 

Nor  pay  but  one,  but  come  for  many, 
Many  and  many  a  happy  year. 
January,  1S&L 


WILL. 


O  WELL  for  him  whose  will  is  strong  t 

He  suffers,  but  he  will  not  suffer  long ; 

He  suffers,  but  he  cannot  suffer  wrong: 

For  him  nor  moves  the  loud  world's  random  mock, 

Nor  all  Calamity's  hugest  waves  confound, 

Who  seems  a  promontory  of  rock, 

That,  compass'd  round  with  turbulent  sound, 

In  middle  ocean  meets  the  surging  shock, 

Tempest-buffeted,  citadel-crown'  d. 

2. 

But  ill  for  him  who,  bettering  not  with  time, 

Corrupts  the  strength  of  heaven-descended  Will, 

And  ever  weaker  grows  thro'  acted  crime, 

Or  seeming-genial  venial  fault, 

Eecurring  and  suggesting  still ! 

He  seems  as  one  whose  footsteps 

Toiling  in  immeasurable  sand, 

And  o'er  a  weary,  sultry  land, 

Far  beneath  a  blazing  vault, 

Sown  in  a  wrinkle  of  the  monstrous  hill, 

The  city  sparkles  like  a  grain  of  salt. 


THE  CHARGE  OF  THE  LIGHT  BRIGADE, 
l. 

HALF  a  league,  half  a  league, 
Half  a  league  onward, 
All  in  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred.    . 
"  Forward,  the  Light  Brigade '. 
"Charge  for  the  guns!"  he  said. 
Into  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 

2. 

"  Forward,  the  Light  Brigade  I" 
Was  there  a  man  dismay'd? 
Not  tho'  the  soldier  knew 

Some  one  had  blunder'd: 
Theirs  not  to  make  reply, 
Theirs  not  to  reason  why, 
Theirs  but  to  do  and  die, 
Into  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 

3. 

Cannon  to  right  of  them, 
Cannon  to  left  of  them, 
Cannon  in  front  of  them 

Volley'd  and  thunder'd; 
Storm'd  at  with  shot  and  shellj 
Boldly  they  rode  and  well, 
Into  the  jaws  of  Death, 
Into  the  month  of  Hell 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 


148 


DEDICATION.— THE  COMING  OF  ARTHUR. 


4. 

Flash'd  all  their  sabres  bare, 
Flash'd  as  they  turn'd  in  air, 
Sabring  the  gunners  there, 
Charging  an  army,  while 

All  the  world  wonder'd: 
Plunged  in  the  battery-smoke, 
Right  thro'  the  line  they  broke ; 
Cossack  and  Russian 
Reel'd  from  the  sabre-stroke 

Shatter'd  and  sunder'd. 
Then  they  rode  back,  but  not, 

Not  the  six  hundred. 


Cannon  to  right  of  them, 
Cannon  to  left  of  them, 


Cannon  behind  them 

Volley'd  and  thuuder'd; 
Storm'd  at  with  shot  and  shell, 
While  horse  and  hero  fell, 
They  that  had  fought  so  well 
Came  thro'  the  jaws  of  Death 
Back  from  the  mouth  of  Hell, 
All  that  was  left  of  them, 
Left  of  six  hundred. 

6. 

When  can  their  glory  fade? 
O  the  wild  charge  they  made ! 

All  the  world  wonder'd. 
Honor  the  charge  they  made ! 
Honor  the  Light  Brigade ! 

Noble  six  hundred! 


IDYLS    OF    THE    KING. 


'Flos  Regum  Arthurus." 

JOSEPH  OP  EXETEB. 


DEDICATION. 


THESE  to  His  Memory — since  he  held  them  dear, 
Perhaps  as  finding  there  unconsciously 
Some  image  of  himself— I  dedicate, 
I  dedicate,  I  consecrate  with  tears — 
These  Idyls. 

And  indeed  He  seems  to  me 
Scarce  other  than  my  own  ideal  knight, 
"  Who  reverenced  his  conscience  as  his  king ; 
Whose  glory  was,  redressing  human  wrong; 
Who  spake  no  slander,  no,  nor  listen'd  to  it; 
Who  loved  one  only  and  who  clave  to  her — " 
Her — over  all  whose  realms  to  their  last  isle, 
Commingled  with  the  gloom  of  imminent  war, 
The  shadow  of  His  loss  moved  like  eclipse, 
Darkening  the  world.    We  have  lost  him :  he  is  gone : 
We  know  him  now :  all  narrow  jealousies 
Are  silent:  and  we  see  him  as  he  moved, 
How  modest,  kindly,  all  accomplish'd,  wise, 
With  what  sublime  repression  of  himself, 
And  in  what  limits,  and  how  tenderly; 
Not  swaying  to  this  faction  or  to  that; 
Not  making  his  high  place  the  lawless  perch 
Of  wing'd  ambitions,  nor  a  vantage-ground 
For  pleasure :  but  thro'  all  this  tract  of  years 
(\Vearing  the  white  flower  of  a  blameless  lifej} 
IJefore  a  thousand  peering  littlenesses, 
In  that  fierce  light  which  beats  upon  a  throne, 
And  blackens  every  blot ;  for  where  is  he, 
Who  dares  foreshadow  for  an  only  son 
A  lovelier  life,  a  more  unstain'd,  than  his  ? 
Or  how  should  England  dreaming  of  his  sons 
Hope  more  for  these  than  some  inheritance 
Of  such  a  life,  a  heart,  a  mind  as  thine, 
Thou  noble  Father  of  her  Kings  to  be, 
Laborious  for  her  people  and  her  poor — 
Voice  in  the  rich  dawn  of  an  ampler  day — 
Far-sighted  snmmoner  of  War  and  Waste 
To  fruitful  strifes  and  rivalries  of  peace- 
Sweet  nature  gilded  by  the  gracious  gleam 
Of  letters,  dear  to  Science,  dear  to  Art, 
Dear  to  thy  land  and  ours,  a  Prince  indeed, 
Beyond  all  titles,  and  a  household  name, 
Hereafter,  thro'  all  times,  Albert  the  Good. 

Break  not,  O  woman's-heart,  but  still  endure ; 
Break  not,  for  thou  art  Royal,  but  endure, 
Remembering  all  the  beauty  of  that  star 
Which  shone  so  close  beside  Thee,  that  ye  made 
One  light  together,  but  has  past  and  left 
The  Crown  of  lonely  splendor. 


May  a/i  love, 

His  love,  unseen  but  felt,  o'ershadow  Thee, 
The  love  of  all  Thy  sons  encompass  Thee, 
The  love  of  all  Thy  daughters  cherish  Thee, 
The  love  of  all  Thy  people  comfort  Thee, 
Till  God's  Jove  eet  Thee  at  his  side  again. 


THE  COMING  OF  ARTHUR. 

LEODOOKAN,  the  King  of  Cameliard, 
Had  one  fair  daughter,  and  none  other  child ; 
And  she  was  fairest  of  all  flesh  on  earth, 
Guinevere,  and  in  her  his  one  delight. 

For  many  a  petty  king  ere  Arthur  came 
Ruled  in  this  isle,  and  ever  waging  war 
Each  upon  other,  wasted  all  the  land ; 
And  still  from  time  to  time  the  heathen  host 
Swarm'd  overseas,  and  harried  what  was  left. 
And  so  there  grew  great  tracts  of  wilderness, 
Wherein  the  beast  -was  -ever  more  and  more, 
But  man  was  less  and  less,  till  Arthur  came. 
For  first  Aurelius  lived  and  fought  and  died, 
And  after  him  King  Uther  fought  and  died, 
But  either  fail'd  to  make  the  kingdom  one. 
And  after  these  King  Arthur  for  a  space, 
And  thro'  the  puissance  of  his  Table  Round, 
Drew  all  their  petty  princedoms  under  him, 
Their  king  and  head,  and  made  a  realm,  and  reigu'd 

And  thus  the  land  of  Cameliard  was  waste, 
Thick  with  wet  woods,  and  many  a  beast  therein, 
And  none  or  few  to  scare  or  chase  the  beast ; 
So  that  wild  dog  and  wolf  and  boar  and  bear 
Came  night  and  day,  and  rooted  in  the  fields, 
And  wallow'd  in  the  gardens  of  the  king. 
And  ever  and  anon  the  wolf  would  steal 
The  children  and  devour,  but  now  and  then, 
Her  own  brood  lost  or  dead,  lent  her  fierce  teat 
To  human  sucklings :  and  the  children,  housed' 
In  her  foul  den,  there  at  their  meat  would  growl 
And  mock  their  foster-mother  on  four  feet, 
Till,  straighten'd,  they  grew  up  to  wolf-like  men, 
Worse  than  the  wolves :  and  King  Leodograu 
Groan'd  for  the  Roman  legions  here  again, 
And  Caesar's  eagle :  then  his  brother  king, 
Rience,  assail'd  him :  last  a  heathen  horde, 
Reddening  the  sun  with  smoke  and  earth  with  blooo, 
And  on  the  spike  that  split  the  mother's  heart 
Spitting  the  child,  brake  on  him,  till,  amazed, 
He  knew  not  whither  he  should  turn  for  aid. 


THE  COMING  OF  ARTHUR. 


U9 


But — for  he  heard  of  Arthur  newly  crown'd, 
Tho'  not  without  an  uproar  made  by  those 
Who  cried,  "He  is  not  Uther's  son"— the  king 
Sent  to  him,  saying,  "Arise,  and  help  us  thou ' 
For  here  between  the  man  and  beast  we  die." 

And  Arthur  yet  had  done  no  deed  of  arms, 
But  heard  the  call,  and  came :  and  Guinevere 
Stood  by  the  castle  walls  to  watch  him  pass ; 
But  since  he  neither  wore  on  helm  or  shield 
The  golden  symbol  of  his  kinglihood, 
But  rode  a  simple  knight  among  his  knights, 
And  many  of  these  in  richer  arms  than  he, 
She  saw  him  not,  or  mark'd  not,  if  she  saw, 
One  among  many,  tho'  his  face  was  bare. 
Bnt  Arthur,  looking  downward  as  he  past, 
Felt  the  light  of  her  eyes  into  his  life 
Smite  on  the  sudden,  yet  rode  on,  and  pitch'd 
His  tents  beside  the  forest :  and  he  drave 
The  heathen,  and  he  slew  the  beast,  and  fell'd 
The  forest,  and  let  in  the  sun,  and  made 
Broad  pathways  for  the  hunter  and  the  knight, 
And  so  return'd. 

For  while  he  linger'd  there, 
A  doubt  that  ever  smonlder'd  in  the  hearts 
Of  those  great  Lords  and  Barons  of  his  realm 
Flnsh'd  forth  and  into  war:  for  most  of  these 
Made  head  against  him,  crying,  "Who  is  he 
That  he  should  rule  us  ?  who  hath  proven  him 
King  Uther's  son  ?  for  lo  !  we  look  at  him, 
And  find  nor  face  nor  bearing,  limbs  nor  voice, 
Are  like  to  those  of  Uther  whom  we  knew. 
This  is  the  son  of  Gorlols,  not  the  king. 
This  is  the  son  of  Anton,  not  the  king." 

And  Arthur,  passing  thence  to  battle,  felt 
Travail,  and  throes  and  agonies  of  the  life, 
Desiring  to  be  join'd  with  Guinevere ; 
And  thinking  as  he  rode,  "Her  father  said 
That  there  between  the  man  and  beast  they  die. 
Shall  I  not  lift  her  from  this  land  of  beasts 
Up  to  my  throne,  and  side  by  side  with  me  ? 
What  happiness  to  reign  a  lonely  king, 
Vext —  O  ye  stars  that  shudder  over  me, 

0  earth,  that  soundest  hallow  under  me, 

Vext  with  waste  dreams  ?  for  saving  I  be  join'd 
To  her  that  is  the  fairest  under  heaven, 

1  seem  as  nothing  in  the  mighty  world, 
And  cannot  will  my  will,  nor  work  my  work 
Wholly,  nor  make  myself  in  mine  own  realm 
Victor  and  lord ;  but  were  I  join'd  with  her, 
Then  might  we  live  together  as  one  life, 
And  reigning  with  one  will  in  everything 
Have  power  on  this  dark  land  to  lighten  it, 
And  power  on  this  dead  world  to  make  it  live." 

And  Arthur  from  the  field  of  battle  sent 
Ulfius,  and  Brastias,  and  Bedivere, 
His  new-made  knights,  to  King  Leodogran, 
Saying,  "  If  I  in  aught  have  served  thee  well, 
Give  me  thy  daughter  Guinevere  to  wife." 

Whom  when  he  heard,  Leodogran  in  heart 
Debating — "How  should  I  that  am  a  king, 
However  much  he  holp  me  at  my  need, 
Give  my  one  daughter  saving  to  a  king, 
And  a  king's  son"— lifted  his  voice,  and  call'd 
A  hoary  man,  his  chamberlain,  to  whom 
He  trusted  all  things,  and  of  him  required 
His  counsel:  "Knowestthou  aught  of  Arthur's  birth?' 

Then  spake  the  hoary  chamberlain  and  said, 
"Sir  King,  there  be  but  two  old  men  that  know: 
And  each  is  twice  as  old  as  I ;  and  one 
Is  Merlin,  the  wise  man  that  ever  served 
Kins  Uther  thro'  his  magic  art;  and  one 
Is  Merlin's  master  (so  they  call  him)  Bleys, 


Who  taught  him  magic;  but  the  scholar  ran 
Before  the  master,  and  so  far,  that  Bleys 
Laid  magic  by,  and  sat  him  down,  and  wrote 
All  things  and  whatsoever  Merlin  did 
In  one  great  annal-book,  where  after  years 
Will  learn  the  secret  of  our  Arthur's  birth." 

To  whom  the  king  Leodrogan  replied, 
:'  O  friend,  had  I  been  holpen  half  as  well 
By  this  King  Arthur  as  by  thee  to-day, 
Then  beast  and  man  had  had  their  share  of  me : 
But  summon  Jiere  before  us  yet  once  more 
Ulflns,  and  Brastias,  and  Bedivere." 

Then,  when  they  came  before  him,  the  king  said, 
"I  have  seen  the  cuckoo  chased  by  lesser  fowl, 
And  reason  in  the  chase :  but  wherefore  now 
Do  these  your  lords  stir  up  the  heat  of  war, 
Some  calling  Arthur  born  of  Gorlois, 
Others  of  Anton  ?    Tell  me,  ye  yourselves, 
Hold  ye  this  Arthur  for  King  Uther's  son  ?" 

And  Ulfius  and  Brastias  answer'd,  "Ay." 
Then  Bediyere,  the  first  of  all  his  knights, 
Knighted  by  Arthur  at  his  crowning,  spake,— 
For  bold  in  heart  and  act  and  word  was  he, 
Whenever  slander  breathed  against  the  king, — 

"  Sir,  there  be  many  rumors  on  this  head : 
For  there  be  those  who  hate  him  in  their  hearts, 
Call  him  baseborn,  and  since  his  ways  are  sweet, 
And  theirs  are  bestial,  hold  him  less  than  man: 
And  there  be  those  who  deem  him  more  than  mm, 
And  dream  he  dropt  from  heaven :  but  my  belief 
In  all  this  matter— so  ye  care  to  learn — 
Sir,  for  ye  know  that  in  King  Uther's  time 
The  prince  and  warrior  Gorlois,  he  that  held 
Tintagil  castle  by  the  Cornish  sea, 
Was  wedded  with  a  winsome  wife,  Ygerne: 
And  daughters  had  she  borne  him, — one  whereof 
Lot's  wife,  the  Queen  of  Orkney,  Bellicent, 
Hath  -ever  like  a  loyal  sister  cleaved 
To  Arthur, — but  a  son  she  had  not  borne. 
And  Uther  cast  upon  her  eyes  of  love : 
But  she,  a  stainless  wife  to  Gorlois, 
So  loathed  the  bright  dishonor  of  his  love 
That  Gorlois  and  King  Uther  went  to  war: 
And  overthrown  was  Gorlois  and  slain. 
Then  Uther  in  his  wrath  and  heat  besieged 
Ygerne  within  Tintagil,  where  her  men, 
Seeing  the  mighty  swarm  about  their  walls, 
Left  her  and  fled,  and  Uther  enter'd  in, 
And  there  was  none  to  call  to  but  himself 
So,  compass'd  by  the  power  of  the  king, 
Enforced  she  was  to  wed  him  in  her  tears, 
And  with  a  shameful  swiftness ;  afterward, 
Not  many  moons,  King  Uther  died  himself, 
Moaning  and  wailing  for  an  heir  to  rule 
After  him,  lest  the  realm  should  go  to  wrack. 
And  that  same  night,  the  night  of  the  new  year, 
By  reason  of  the  bitterness  and  grief 
That  vext  his  mother,  all  before  his  time 
Was  Arthur  born,  and  all  as  soon  as  born 
Deliver'd  at  a  secret  postern-gate 
To  Merlin,  to  be  holden  far  apart 
Until  his  hour  should  come ;  because  the  lords 
Of  that  fierce  day  were  as  the  lords  of  this, 
Wild  beasts,  and  surely  would  have  torn  the  child 
Piecemeal  among  them,  had  they  known ;  for  each 
But  sought  to  rule  for  his  own  self  and  hand, 
And  many  hated  Uther  for  the  sake 
Of  Gorlois :  wherefore  Merlin  took  the  child, 
And  gave  him  to  Sir  Anton,  an  old  knight 
And  ancient  friend  of  Uther ;  and  his  wife 
Nursed  the  young  prince,  and  rear'd  him  with  hei 

own ; 

And  no  man  knew:  and  ever  sinew  the  lords 
Have  foughten  like  wild  beasts  among  themselves. 


150 


THE  COMING  OF  ARTHUR. 


So  that  the  realm  has  gone  to  wrack:  but  now, 
This  year,  when  Merlin  (for  his  hour  had  come) 
Brought  Arthur  forth,  and  set  him  in  the  hall, 
Proclaiming,  'Here  is  Uther's  heir,  your  king,' . 
A  hundred  voices  cried,  '  Away  with  him ! 
No  king  of  ours !  a  son  of  Gorlois  he : 
Or  else  the  child  of  Anton  and  no  king, 
Or  else  baseborn.'    Yet  Merlin  thro'  his  craft 
And  while  the  people  clamor'd  for  a  king, 
Had  Arthur  crowu'd ;  but  after,  the  great  lords 
Banded,  and  so  brake  out  in  open  war." 

Then  while  the  king  debated  with  himself 
If  Arthur  were  the  child  of  shamefulness, 
Or  born  the  son  of  Qorlois,  after  death, 
Or  Uther's  son,  and  born  before  his  time, 
Or  whether  there  were  troth  in  anything 
Said  by  these  three,  there  came  to  Cameliard, 
With  Gawain  and  young  Modred,  her  two  sons, 
Lot's  wife,  the  Queen  of  Orkney,  Beiliceut ; 
Whom  as  he  could,  not  as  he  would,  the  king 
Made  feast  for,  saying,  as  they  sat  at  meat, 

"A  doubtful  throne  is  ice  on  summer  seas — 
Ye  come  from  Arthur's  court :  think  ye  this  king- 
So  few  his  knights,  however  brave  they  be — 
Hath  body  enow  to  beat  his  foemen  down  ?" 

"O  king,"  she  cried,  "and  I  will  tell  thee:  few, 
Few,  but  all  brave,  all  of  one  mind  with  him; 
For  I  was  near  him  when  the  savage  yells 
Of  Uther's  peerage  died,  and  Arthur  sat 
Crowned  on  the  dais,  and  his  warriors  cried, 
'Be  thou  the  king,  and  we  will  work  thy  will 
Who  love  thee.*    Then  the  king  in  low  deep  tones, 
And  simple  words  of  great  authority, 
Bound  them  by  so  strait  vows  to  his  own  self, 
That  when  they  rose,  knighted  from  kneeling,  some 
Were  pale  as  at  the  passing  of  a  ghost, 
Some  flush'd,  and  others  dazed,  as  one  who  wakes 
Half-blinded  at  the  coming  of  a  light. 

.-  "But  when  he  spake  and  cheered  his  Table  Round 
With  large,  divine,  and  comfortable  words 
Beyond  my  tongue  to  tell  thee — I  beheld 
From  eye  to  eye  thro'  all  their  Order  flash 
A  momentary  likeness  of  the  king ; 
And  ere  it  left  their  faces,  thro'  the  cross 
And  those  around  it  and  the  crucified, 
Down  from  the  casement  over  Arthur,  smote 
Flame-color,  vert,  and  azure,  in  three  rays, 
One  falling  upon  each  of  three  fair  queens, 
Who  stood  in  silence  near  his  throne,  the  friends 
Of  Arthur,  gazing  on  him,  tall,  with  bright, 
Sweet  faces,  who  will  help  him  at  his  need. 

"  And  there  I  saw  mage  Merlin,  whose  vast  wit 
And  hundred  winters  are  but  as  the  hands 
Of  loyal  vassals  toiling  for  their  liege. 

"  And  near  him  stood  the  Lady  of  the  lake,— 
Who  knows  a  subtler  magic  than  his  own, — 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonderful. 
She  gave  the  king  his  huge  cross-hilted  sword, 
Whereby  to  drive  the  heathen  ont:  a  mist 
Of  incense  curl'd  about  her,  and  her  face 
Wellnigh  was  hidden  in  the  minster  gloom, 
But  there  was  heard  among  the  holy  hymna 
A  voice  as  of  the  waters,  for  she  dwells 
Down  in  a  deep,  calm,  whatsoever  storms 
May  shake  the  world,  and,  when  the  surface  rolls, 
Hath  power  to  walk  the  waters  like  our  Lord. 

,   "There  likewise  I  beheld  Excalibnr 
Before  him  at  his  crowning  borne,  the  sword 
That  rose  from  out  the  bosom  of  the  lake, 
And  Arthur  row'd  across  and  took  it, — rich 
With  jewels,  elfin  Urim,  on  tha  hilt, 


Bewildering  heart  and  eye, — the  blade  so  brighc 
That  men  are  blinded  by  it, — on  one  side, 
Graven  in  the  oldest  tongue  of  all  this  world, 
'Take  me,'  but  turn  the  blade  and  you  shall  see. 
And  written  in  the  speech  ye  speak  yourself, 
'Cast  me  away!'  and  sad  was  Arthur's  face 
Taking  it,  but  old  Merlin  counsell'd  him, 
'  Take  thou  and  strike  !  the  time  to  cast  away 
Is  yet  far  off;'  so  this  great  brand  the  king 
Took,  and  by  this  will  beat  his  foemea  down." 

Thereat  Leodogran  rejoiced,  but  thought 
To  sift  his  doublings  to  the  last,  and  ask'd, 
Fixing  full  eyes  of  question  on  her  face, 
"The  swallow  and  the  swift  are  near  akin, 
But  thou  art  closer  to  this  noble  prince, 
Being  his  own  dear  sister;"  and  she  said, 
"  Daughter  of  GorloTs  and  Ygerne  am  I ;" 
"And  therefore  Arthur's  sister,"  asked  the  King. 
She  answer'd,  "These  be  secret  things,"  and  sigu'd 
To  those  two  sons  to  pass  and  let  them  be. 
And  Gawain  went,  and  breaking  into  song 
Sprang  out,  and  follow'd  by  his  flying  hair 
Ran  like  a  colt,  and  leapt  at  all  he  saw : 
But  Modred  laid  his  ear  beside  the  doors, 
And  there  half  heard  ;  the  same  that  afterward 
Struck  for  the  throne,  and,  striking,  found  his  doom. 

And  then  the  Queen  made  answer,  "  What  know  I  i 
For  dark  my  mother  was  in  eyes  and  hair, 
And  dark  in  hair  and  eyes  am  I ;  and  dark 
Was  Gorlols,  yea,  and  dark  was  Uther  too, 
Wellnigh  to  blackness,  but  this  king  is  fair 
Beyond  the  race  of  Britons  and  of  men. 
Moreover  always  in  my  mind  I  hear 
A  cry  from  out  the  dawning  of  my  life, 
A  mother  weeping,  and  I  hear  her  say, 
'  Oh  that  ye  had  some  brother,  pretty  one, 
To  guard  thee  on  the  rough  ways  of  the  world.'" 

"Ay,"  said  the  King,  "and  hear  ye  such  a  cry? 
But  when  did  Arthur  chance  upon  thee  first?" 

"O  king!"  she  cried,  "and  I  will  tell  thee  true: 
He  found  me  first  when  yet  a  little  maid- 
Beaten  I  had  been  for  a  little  fault 
WThereof  I  was  not  guilty ;  and  out  I  rail 
And  flung  myself  down  on  a  bank  of  heath, 
And  hated  this  fair  world  and  all  therein, 
And  wept,  and  wish'd  that  I  were  dead ;  and  he— 
I  know  not  whether  of  himself  he  came, 
Or  brought  by  Merlin,  who,  they  say,  can  walk 
Unseen,  at  pleasure — he  was  at  my  side, 
And  spake  sweet  words,  and  comforted  my  heart, 
And  dried  my  tears,  being  a  child  with  me. 
And  many  a  time  he  came,  and  evermore, 
As  I  grew,  greater  grew  with  me ;  and  sad 
At  times  he  seem'd,  and  sad  with  him  was  I, 
Stern  too  at  times,  and  then  I  loved  him  not, 
But  sweet  again,  and  then  I  loved  him  well. 
And  now  of  late  I  see  him  less  and  less, 
But  those  first  days  had  golden  hours  for  me, 
For  then  I  surely  thought  he  would  be  king. 

"But  let  me  tell  thee  now  another  tale: 
For  Bleys,  our  Merlin's  master,  as  they  say, 
Died  but  of  late,  and  sent  his  cry  to  me, 
To  hear  him  speak  before  he  left  his  life. 
Shrunk  like  a  fairy  changeling  lay  the  mage, 
And  when  I  enter'd,  told  me  that  himself 
And  Merlin  ever  served  about  the  king, 
Uther,  before  he  died,  and  on  the  night 
When  Uther  in  Tintngil  past  away 
Moaning  and  wailing  for  an  heir,  the  two 
Left  the  still  king,  and  passing  forth  to  breaths, 
Then  from  the  castle  gateway  by  the  chasm 
Descending  thro'  the  dismal  night— a  night 
In  which  the  bounds  of  heaven  and  earth  we're  lost- 


THE  COMING  OF  ARTHUR.— ENID. 


151 


Beheld,  so  high  upon  the  dreary  deeps 
It  seera'd  in  heaven — a  ship,  the  shape  thereof 
A  dragon  wing'd,  and  all  from  stem  to  stern 
Bright  with  a  shining  people  on  the  decks, 
And  gone  as  soon  as  seen :  and  then  the  two 
Dropt  to  the  cove  and  watch'd  the  great  sea  fall, 
Wave  after  wave,  each  mightier  than  the  last, 
Till,  last,  a  ninth  one,  gathering  half  the  deep 
And  full  of  voices,  slowly  rose  and  plunged 
Roaring,  and  all  the  wave  was  in  a  flame : 
And  down  the  wave  and  in  the  flame  was  borne 
A  naked  babe,  and  rode  to  Merlin's  feet, 
Who  stoopt  and  caught  the  babe,  and  cried,  'The 

King! 

Here  is  an  heir  for  Uther!1  and  the  fringe 
Of  that  great  breaker,  sweeping  up  the  strand, 
Lash'd  at  the  wizard  as  he  spake  the  word, 
And  all  at  once  all  round  him  rose  in  fire, 
So  that  the  child  and  he  were  clothed  in  fire. 
And  presently  thereafter  follow'd  calm, 
Free  sky  and  stars:  'And  this  same  child,'  he  said, 
'  Is  he  who  reigns ;  nor  could  I  part  in  peace 
Till  this  were  told.'    And  saying  this  the  seer 
Went  thro'  the  strait  and  dreadful  pass  of  death, 
Not  ever  to  be  qnestion'd  any  more 
Save  on  the  further  side ;  but  when '  I  met 
Merlin,  and  ask'd  him  if  these  things  were  truth,— 
The  shining  dragon  and  the  naked  child 
Descending  in  the  glory  of  the  seas, — 
He  laugh'd  as  is  his  wont,  and  answer'd  me 
In  riddling  triplets  of  old  time,  and  said : 

" '  Rain,  rain,  and  sun  !  a  rainbow  in  the  sky  1 
A  young  man  will  be  wiser  by  and  by: 
An  old  man's  wit  may  wander  ere  he  die. 

Rain,  rain,  and  sun !  a  rainbow  on  the  lea ! 
And  truth  is  this  to  me,  and  that  to  thee ; 
And  truth  or -clothed  or  naked  let  it  be. 

Rain,  sun,  and  rain !  and  the  free  blossom  blows : 
Sun,  rain,  and  sun !  and  where  is  he  who  knows  ? 
From  the  great  deep  to  the  great  deep  he  goes.' 

"So  Merlin,  riddling,  anger'd  me;  but  thou 
Fear  not  to  give  this  king  thine  only  child, 
Guinevere :  so  great  bards  of  him  will  sing 
Hereafter,  and  dark  sayings  from  of  old 
Ranging  and  ringing  thro'  the  minds  of  men, 
And  echo'd  by  old  folks  beside  their  fires 
For  comfort  after  their  wage-work  is  done, 
Speak  of  the  king ;   and  Merlin  in  our  time 
Hath  spoken  also,  not  in  jest,  and  sworn, 
Tho'  men  may  wound  him,  that  he  will  not  die, 
But  pass,  again  to  come ;  and  then  or  now 
Utterly  smite  the  heathen  underfoot, 
Till  these  and  all  men  hail  him  for  their  king." 

She  spake  and  King  Leodogran  rejoiced, 
But  musing  "Shall  I  answer  yea  or  nay?" 
Doubted  and  drowsed,  nodded  and  slept,  and  saw, 
Dreaming,  a  slope  of  land  that  ever  grew, 
Field  after  field,  up  to  a  height,  the  peak 
Haze-hidden,  and  thereon  a  phantom  king, 
Now  looming,  and  now  lost ;  and  on  the  slope 
The  sword  rose,  the  hind  fell,  the  herd  was  driven, 
Fire  glimpsed ;  and  all  the  land  from  roof  and  rick 
In  drifts  of  smoke  before  a  rolling  wind 
Stream'd  to  the  peak,  and  mingled  with  the  haze 
And  made  it  thicker ;  while  the  phantom  king 
Sent  out  at  times  a  voice ;  and  here  or  there 
Stood  one  who  pointed  toward  the  voice,  the  rest 
Slew  on  and  burnt,  crying,  "No  king  of  ours, 
No  son  of  Uther,  and  no  king  of  ours ;" 
Till  with  a  wink  his  dream  was  changed,  the  haze 
Descended,  and  the  solid  earth  became 
As  nothing,  and  the  king  stood  out  in  heaven, 
Crown'd ;  and  Leodogran  awoke,  and  sent 
Ulfius,  and  Brastias,  and  Bedivere 
Back  to  the  court  of  Arthur  answering  yea. 


Then  Arthur  charged  his  warrior  whom  he  loved 
And  honor'd  most,  Sir  Lancelot,  to  ride  forth 
And  bring  the  Queen ; — and  watch'd  him  from  the 

gates : 

And  Lancelot  past  away  among  the  flowers, 
(For  then  was  latter  April)  and  return'd 
Among  the  flowers,  in  May,  with  Guinevere. 
To  whom  arrived,  by  Dubric  the  high  saint, 
Chief  of  the  church  in  Britain,  and  before 
The  stateliest  of  her  altar-shrines,  the  king 
That  morn  was  married,  while  in  stainless  whitu, 
The  fair  beginners  of  a  nobler  time, 
And  glorying  in  their  vows  and  him,  his  knights 
Stood  round  him,  and  rejoicing  in  his  joy. 
And  holy  Dubric  spread  his  hands  and  spake, 
"Reign  ye,  and  live  and  love,  and  make  the  world 
Other,  and  may  thy  Queen  be  one  with  thee, 
And  all  this  Order  of  thy  Table  Round 
Fulfill  the  boundless  purpose  of  their  king." 

Then  at  the  marriage  feast  came  in  from  Rome, 
The  slowly-fading  mistress  of  the  world, 
Great  lords,  who  claim'd  the  tribute  as  of  yore. 
But  Arthur  spake,  "Behold,  for  these  have  sworn 
To  fight  my  wars,  and  worship  me  their  king; 
The  old  order  changeth,  yielding  place  to  new ; 
And  we  that  fight  for  our  fair  father  Christ, 
Seeing  that  ye  be  grown  too  weak  and  old 
To  drive  the  heathen  from  your  Roman  wall, 
No  tribute  will  we  pay :"  so  those  great  lords 
Drew  back  in  wrath,  and  Arthur  strove  with  Rome, 

And  Arthur  and  his  knighthood  for  a  space 
Were  all  one  will,  and  thro1  that  strength  the  king 
Drew  in  the  petty  princedoms  under  him, 
Fought,  and  in  twelve  great  battles  overcame 
The  heathen  hordes,  and  made  a  realm  and  reigu'd. 


ENID. 

THE  brave  Geraint,  a  knight  of  Arthur's  court, 

A  tributary  prince  of  Devon,  one 

Of  that  great  order  of  the  Table  Round, 

Had  wedded  Enid,  Yniol's  only  child, 

And  loved  he?,  as  he  loved  the  light  of  Heaven. 

And  as  the  light  of  Heaven  varies,  now 

At  sunrise,  now  at  sunset,  now  by  night 

With  moon  and  trembling  stars,  BO  loved  Geraint 

To  make  her  beauty  vary  day  by  day, 

In  crimsons  and  in  purples  and  in  gems. 

And  Enid,  but  to  please  her  husband's  eye, 

Who  first  had  found  and  loved  her  in  a  state 

Of  broken  fortunes,  daily  fronted  him 

In  some  fresh  splendor ;  and  the  Queen  herself, 

Grateful  to  Prince  Geraint  for  service  done, 

Loved  her,  and  often  with  her  own  white  hands 

Array'd  and  deck'd  her,  as  the  loveliest, 

Next  after  her  own  self,  in  all  the  court. 

And  Enid  loved  the  Queen,  and  with  true  heart 

Adored  her,  as  the  stateliest  and  the  best 

And  loveliest  of  all  women  upon  earth. 

And  seeing  them  so  tender  and  so  close, 

Long  in  their  common  love  rejoiced  Geraint. 

But  when  a  rumor  rose  about  the  Queen, 

Touching  her  guilty  love  for  Lancelot, 

Though  yet  there  lived  no  proof,  nor  yet  was  hearc 

The  world's  loud  whisper  breaking  into  storm, 

Not  less  Geraint  believed  it ;  and  there  fell 

A  horror  on  him,  lest  his  gentle  wife, 

Thro'  that  great  tenderness  to  Guinevere, 

Had  suffered  or  should  suffer  any  taint 

In  nature:  wherefore  going  to  the  king, 

He  made  this  pretext,  that  his  princedom  lay 

Close  on  the  borders  of  a  territory, 

Wherein  were  bandit  earis,  and  caitiff  knights, 


{52 


ENID. 


Assassins,  and  all  flyers  from  the  hand 
Of  Justice,  and  whatever  loathes  a  law : 
And  therefore,  till  the  king  himself  should  please 
To  cleanse  this  common  sewer  of  all  his  realm, 
He  craved  a  fair  permission  to  depart, 
And  there  defend  his  marches;  and  the  king 
Mused  for  a  little  on  his  plea,  but,  last, 
Allowing  it,  the  prince  and  Enid  rode, 
And  fifty  knights  rode  with  them,  to  the  shores 
Of  Severn,  and  they  past  to  their  own  land ; 
Where,  thinking,  that  if  ever  yet  was  wife 
True  to  her  lord,  mine  shall  be  so  to  me, 
He  compassed  her  with  sweet  observances 
And  worship,  never  leaving  her,  and  grew 
Forgetful  of  his  promise  to  the  king, 
Forgetful  of  the  falcon  and  the  hunt, 
Forgetful  of  the  tilt  and  tournament, 
Forgetful  of  his  glory  and  his  name, 
Forgetful  of  his  princedom  and  its  cares. 
And  this  forgetfulness  was  hateful  to  her. 
And  by  and  by  the  people,  when  they  met 
In  twos  and  threes,  or  fuller  companies, 
Began  to  scoff  and  jeer  and  babble  of  him 
As  of  a  prince  whose  manhood  was  all  gone, 
And  molten  down  in  mere  uxoriousness. 
And  this  she  gather'd  from  the  people's  eyes : 
This  too  the  women  who  attired  her  head, 
To  please  her,  dwelling  on  his  boundless  love, 
Told  Enid,  and  they  saddened  her  the  more : 
And  day  by  day  she  thought  to  tell  Geraint, 
But  could  not  out  of  bashful  delicacy; 
While  he  that  watch'd  her  sadden,  was  the  more 
Suspicious  that  her  nature  had  a  taint 

At  last,  it  chanced  that  on  a  summer  morn 
(They  sleeping  each  by  other)  the  new  sun 
Beat  through  the  bliudless  casement  of  the  room, 
And  heated  the  strong  warrior  in  his  dreams; 
Who,  moving,  cast  the  coverlet  aside. 
And  bared  the  knotted  column  of  his  throat, 
The  massive  square  of  his  heroic  breast, 
And  arms  ou  which  the  standing  muscle  sloped, 
As  slopes  a  wild  brook  o'er  a  little  stone, 
Running  too  vehemently  to  break  upon  it. 
And  Enid  woke  and  sat  beside  the  couch, 
Admiring  him,  and  thought  within  herself, 
Was  ever  man  so  grandly  made  as  he? 
Then,  like  a  shadow,  past  the  people's  talk 
Aud  accusation  of  uxoriousness 
Across  her  mind,  and  bowing  over  him, 
Low  to  her  own  heart  piteously,  she  said: 

"O  noble  breast  and  all-puissant  arms, 
Am  I  the  cause,  I  the  poor  cause  that  men 
Reproach  you,  saying  all  your  force  is  gone  ? 
I  am  the  cause  because  I  dare  not  speak 
And  tell  him  what  I  think  and  what  they  say. 
And  yet  I  hate  that  he  should  linger  here ; 
I  cannot  love  my  lord  and  not  his  name. 
Far  liever  had  I  gird  his  harness  on  him, 
And  ride  with  him  to  battle  and  stand  by, 
And  watch  his  mightful  hand  striking  great  blows 
At  caitiffs  and  at  wrongers  of  the  world. 
Far  better  were  I  laid  in  the  dark  earth, 
Not  hearing  any  more  his  noble  voice, 
Not  to  be  folded  any  more  in  these  dear  arms, 
And  darken'd  from  the  high  light  in  his  eyes, 
Than  that  my  lord  through  me  should  suffer  shame. 
Am  I  so  bold,  and  could  I  so  stand  by, 
And  see  my  dear  lord  wounded  in  the  strife, 
Or  may  be  pierced  to  death  before  mine  eyes, 
And  yet  not  dare  to  tell  him  what  I  think, 
And  how  men  slur  him,  saying  all  his  force 
Is  melted  into  mere  effeminacy? 
O  me,  I  fear  that  I  am  no  true  wife." 

Half  inwardly,  half  audibly  she  spoke, 
And  the  strong  passion  in  her  made  her  weep 


True  tears  upon  his  broad  aud  naked  breast, 
And  these  awoke  him,  arid  by  great  mischance 
He  heard  but  fragments  of  her  later  words, 
And  that  she  fear'd  she  was  not  a  true  wife. 
And  then  he  thought,  "  In  spite  of  all  my  care, 
For  all  my  pains,  poor  man,  for  all  my  pains, 
She  is  not  faithful  to  me,  and  I  see  her 
Weeping  for  some  gay  knight  in  Arthur's  hall." 
Then  tho'  he  loved  and  reverenced  her  too  much 
To  dream  she  could  be  guilty  of  foul  act, 
Right  thro'  his  manful  breast  darted  the  pang 
That  makes  a  man  in  the  sweet  face  of  her 
Whom  he  loves  most,  lonely  and  miserable. 
At  this  he  hurl'd  his  huge  limbs  out  of  bed, 
And  shook  his  drowsy  squire  awake  and  cried, 
"My  charger  and  her  palfrey,"  then  to  her, 
"I  will  ride  forth  into  the  wilderness; 
For  tho'  it  seems  my  spurs  are  yet  to  win, 
I  have  not  fall'n  so  low  as  some  would  wish. 
And  you,  put  on  your  worst  and  meanest  dress 
And  ride  with  me."    And  Enid  ask'd  amazed, 
"  If  Enid  errs,  let  Enid  learn  her  fault." 
But  he,  "  I  charge  you,  ask  not,  but  obey." 
Then  she  bethought  her  of  a  faded  silk, 
A  faded  mantle  and  a  faded  veil, 
And  moving  toward  a  cedarn  cabinet, 
Wherein  she  kept  them  folded  reverently 
With  sprigs  of  summer  laid  between  the  folds, 
She  took  them,  and  array'd  herself  therein, 
Remembering  when  first  he  came  on  her 
Drest  in  that  dress,  and  how  he  loved  her  in  it. 
And  all  her  foolish  fears  about  the  dress, 
And  all  his  journey  to  her,  as  himself 
Had  told  her,  and  their  coming  to  the  court. 

For  Arthur  on  the  Whitsuntide  before 
Held  court  at  old  Caerleou  upon  Usk. 
There  on  a  day,  he  sitting  high  in  hall, 
Before  him  came  a  forester  of  Dean, 
Wet  from  the  woods,  with  notice  of  a  hart 
Taller  than  all  his  fellows,  milky-white, 
First  seen  that  day:  these  things  he  told  the  king, 
Then  the  good  king  gave  order  to  let  blow 
His  horns  for  hunting  on  the  morrow  morn. 
And  when  the  Queen  petition'd  for  his  leave 
To  see  the  hunt,  allow'd  it  easily. 
So  with  the  morning  all  the  court  were  gone. 
But  Guinevere  lay  late  into  the  morn, 
Lost  in  sweet  dreams,  and  dreaming  of  her  love 
For  Lancelot,  and  forgetful  of  the  hunt; 
But  rose  at  last,  a  single  maiden  with  her, 
Took  horse,  and  forded  Usk,  and  gain'd  the  wood; 
There,  on  a  little  knoll  beside  it,  stay'd 
Waiting  to  hear  the  hounds;  but  heard  instead 
A  sndden  sound  of  hoofs,  for  Prince  Geraiut, 
Late  also,  wearing  neither  hunting-dress 
Nor  weapon,  save  a  golden-hilted  brand, 
Came  quickly  flashing  thro'  the  shallow  ford 
Behind  them,  aud  so  gallop'd  up  the  knoll. 
A  purple  scarf,  at  either  end  whereof 
There  swung  an  apple  of  the  purest  gold, 
Sway'd  round  about  him,  as  he  gallop'd  up 
To  join  them,  glancing  like  a  dragon-fly 
In  summer  suit  and  silks  of  holiday. 
Low  bow'd  the  tributary  Prince,  aud  she, 
Sweetly  and  statelily,  and  with  all  grace 
Of  womanhood  and  queenhood,  answer'd  him  : 
"  Late,  late,  Sir  Prince,"  she  said,  "  later  than  we  !" 
"  Yea,  noble  Queen,"  he  answer'd,  "  and  so  late 
That  I  but  come  like  yon  to  see  the  hunt, 
Not  join  it."    "Therefore  wait  with  me,"  she  said  ; 
"  For  on  this  little  knoll,  if  anywhere, 
There  is  good  chance  that  we  shall  hear  the  hounds  ; 
Here  often  they  break  covert  at  our  feet." 

And  while  they  listen'd  for  the  distant  hnnt, 
And  chiefly  for  the  baying  of  Cavall, 
King  Arthur's  hound  of  deepest  mouth,  there  rode 


EXID. 


153 


Full  slowly  by  a  knight,  lady,  and  dwarf; 

Whereof  the  dwarf  lagg'd  latest,  and  the  knight 

Had  visor  np,  and  show'd  a  youthful  face, 

Imperious,  and  of  haughtiest  lineaments. 

And  Guinevere,  not  mindful  of  his  face 

In  the  king's  hall,  desired  his  name,  and  sent 

Her  maiden  to  demand  it  of  the  dwarf; 

Who  being  vicious,  old,  and  irritable, 

And  doubling  all  his  master's  vice  of  pride, 

Made  answer  sharply  that  she  should  not  know. 

"Then  will  I  ask  it  of  himself,"  she  said. 

"  Xay,  by  my  faith,  thou  shall  not,"  cried  the  dwarf; 

"Thou  art  not  worthy  ev'n  to  speak  of  him;" 

And  when  she  put  her  horse  toward  the  knight, 

Struck  at  her  with  his  whip,  and  she  return'd 

Indignant  to  the  Queen ;  at  which  Geraint 

Exclaiming,  "  Surely  I  will  learn  the  name," 

Made  sharply  to  the  dwarf,  and  ask'd  it  of  him, 

Who  auswer'd  as  before;  and  when  the  Prince 

Had  put  his  horse  in  motion  toward  the  knight, 

Struck  at  him  with  his  whip,  and  cut  his  cheek. 

The  Prince's  blood  spirted  upon  the  scarf, 

Dyeing  it;  and  his  quick,  instinctive  hand 

Caught  at  the  hilt,  as  to  abolish  him : 

But  he,  from  his  exceeding  manfuluess 

And  pure  nobility  of  temperament, 

Wroth  to  be  wroth  at  such  a  worm,  refrain'd 

From  ev'n  a  word,  and  so  returning,  said : 

"I  will  avenge  this  insult,  noble  Queen, 
Done  in  your  maiden's  person  to  yourself: 
And  I  will  track  this  vermin  to  their  earths : 
For  tho'  I  ride  unarm'd,  I  do  not  doubt 
To  find,  at  some  place  I  shall  come  at,  arms 
On  loan,  or  else  for  pledge  ;  and,  being  found, 
Then  will  I  fight  him,  and  will  break  his  pride, 
And  on  the  third  day  will  again  be  here, 
So  that  I  be  not  fall'n  in  fight.    Farewell." 

"  Farewell,  fair  Prince,"  answer'd  the  stately  Queen. 
"  Be  prosperous  in  this  journey,  as  in  all; 
And  may  you  light  on  all  things  that  you  love, 
And  live  to  wed  with  her  whom  first  you  love: 
But  ere  you  wed  with  any,  bring  your  bride, 
And  I,  were  she  the  daughter  of  a  king, 
Yea,  tho'  she  were  a  beggar  from  the  hedge, 
Will  clothe  her  for  her  bridals  like  the  sun." 

And  Prince  Geraint,  now  thinking  that  he  heard 
The  noble  hart  at  bay,  now  the  far  horn, 
A  little  vext  at  losing  of  the  hunt, 
A  little  at  the  vile  occasion,  rode, 
By  ups  and  downs,  thro'  many  a  grassy  glade 
And  valley,  with  fixt  eye,  following  the  three. 
At  last  they  issued  from  the  world  of  wood, 
And  climb'd  upon  a  fair  and  even  ridge, 
And  show'd  themselves  against  the  sky,  and  sank. 
And  thither  came  Geraint,  and  underneath 
Beheld  the  long  street  of  a  little  town 
In  a  long  valley,  on  one  side  of  which,- 
White  from  the  mason's  hand,  a  fortress  rose : 
And  on  one  side  a  castle  in  decay, 
Beyond  a  bridge  that  spann'd  a  dry  raviue : 
And  out  of  town  and  valley  came  a  noiJe 
As  of  a  broad  brook  o'er  a  shingly  bed 
Brawling,  or  like  a  clamor  of  the  rooks 
At  distance,  ere  they  settle  for  the  night. 

And  onward  to  the  fortress  rode  the  %ree, 
And  enter'd,  and  were  lost  behind  the  walls. 
"So,"  thought  Geraint,  "I  have  track'd  him  to  his 

earth." 

And  down  the  long  street,  riding  wearily, 
Found  every  hostel  full,  and  everywhere 
Was  hammer  laid  to  hoof,  and  the  hot  hiss 
And  bustling  whistle  of  the  youth  who  sconr'd 
His  master's  armor ;  and  of  such  a  one 
He  ask'd,  "What  means  the  tumult  in  the  town?" 


Who  told  him,  scouring  still,  "  The  sparrow-hawk  ? 
Then  riding  close  behind  an  ancient  churl, 
Who,  smitten  by  the  dusty  sloping  beam, 
Went  sweating  underneath  a  sack  of  corn, 
Ask'd  yet  once  more  what  meant  the  hubbub  here  ? 
Who  answer'd  gruffly,  "  Ugh !  the  sparrow-hawk.-" 
Then,  riding  further  past  an  armorer's, 
Who,  with  back  turn'd,  and  bow'd  above  his  work, 
Sat  riveting  a  helmet  on  his  knee, 
He  put  the  selfsame  query,  but  the  man 
Not  turning  round,  nor  looking  at  him,  said : 
"Friend,  he  that  labors  for  the  sparrow-hawk 
Has  little  time  for  idle  questioners." 
Whereat  Geraint  flash'd  into  sudden  spleen: 
"A  thousand  pips  eat  up  your  sparrow-hawk! 
Tits,  wrens,  and  all  wing'd  nothings  peck  him  dead '. 
Ye  think  the  rustic  cackle  of  your  bourg 
The  murmur  of  the  world !    What  is  it  to  me  ? 
O  wretched  set  of  sparrows,  one  and  all, 
Who  pipe  of  nothing  but  of  sparrow-hawks  ! 
Speak,  if  you  be  not  like  the  rest,  hawk-mad, 
Where  can  I  get  me  harborage  for  the  night? 
And  arms,  arms,  arms  to  fight  my  enemy  ?    Speak  !K 
At  this  the  armorer  turning  all  amazed 
And  seeing  one  so  gay  in  purple  silks, 
Came  forward  with  the  helmet  yet  in  hand 
And  answer'd,  "Pardon  me,  O  stranger  knight; 
We  hold  a  tourney  here  to-morrow  morn, 
And  there  is  scantly  time  for  half  the  work. 
Arms  ?  truth !  I  know  not :  all  are  wanted  here, 
Harborage  ?  truth,  good  truth,  I  know  not,  save, 
It  may  be,  at  Earl  Yniol's,  o'er  the  bridge 
Yonder."    He  spoke  and  fell  to  work  again. 

Then  rode  Geraint,  a  little  spleenful  yet, 
Across  the  bridge  that  spann'd  the  dry  ravinfc 
There  musing  sat  the  hoary-headed  Earl, 
(His  dress  a  suit  of  fray'd  magnificence, 
Once  fit  for  feasts  of  ceremony)  and  said: 
"Whither,  fair  son?"  to  whom  Geraint  replied, 
"  O  friend,  I  seek  a  harborage  for  the  night." 
Then  Yniol,  "  Enter  therefore  and  partake 
The  slender  entertainment  of  a  house 
Once  rich,  now  poor,  but  ever  opeu-door'd." 
"  Thanks,  venerable  friend,"  replied  Geraiut ; 
"So  that  you  do  not  serve  me  sparrow-hawks 
For  supper,  I  will  enter,  I  will  eat 
With  all  the  passion  of  a  twelve  hours'  fast." 
Then  sigh'd  and  smiled  the  hoary-headed  Earl, 
And  answer'd,  "Graver  cause  than  yours  is  mine 
To  curse  this  hedgerow  thief,  the  sparrow-hawk: 
But  in,  go  in ;  for,  save  yourself  desire  it, 
We  will  not  touch  upon  him  ev'n  in  jest." 

Then  rode  Geraiut  into  the  castle  court, 
His  charger  trampling  many  a  prickly  star 
Of  sprouted  thistle  on  the  broken  stones. 
He  look'd  and  saw  that  all  was  ruinous. 
Here  stood  a  shatter'd  archway  plumed  with  fern : 
And  here  had  fall'n  a  great  part  of  a  tower, 
Whole,  like  a  crag  that  tumbles  from  the  cliff, 
And  like  a  crag  was  gay  with  wilding  flowers: 
And  high  above  a  piece  of  turret  stair, 
Worn  by  the  feet  that  now  were  silent,  wound 
Bare  to  the  sun,  and  monstrous  ivy-stems 
Claspt  the  gray  walls  With  hairy-fibred  arms, 
And  snck'd  the  joining  of  the  stones,  and  look'd 
A  knot,  beneath,  of  snakes,  aloft,  a  grove. 

And  while  he  waited  in  the  castle  court, 
The  voice  of  Enid,  Yniol's  daughter,  rang 
Clear  thro'  the  open  casement  of  the  Hall, 
Singing :  and  as  the  sweet  voice  of  a  bird,' 
Heard  by  the  lander  in  a  lonely  isle, 
Moves  him  to  think  what  kind  of  bird  it  is 
That  sings  so  delicately  clear,  and  make 
Conjecture  of  the  plumage  and  the  form  ; 
So  the  sweet  voice  of  Enid  moved  Geraint ; 


154 


ENID. 


And  made  him  like  a  man  abroad  at  morn 

When  first  the  liquid  note  beloved  of  men 

Comes  flying  over  many  a  windy  wave 

To  Britain,  and  in  April  suddenly 

Breaks  from  a  coppice  gemm'd  with  green  and  red, 

And  he  suspends  his  converse  with  a  friend, 

Or  it  may  be  the  labor  of  his  hands, 

To  think  or  say,  "there  is  the  nightingale;" 

So  fared  it  with  Geraint,  who  thought  and  said, 

"  Here,  by  God's  grace,  is  the  one  voice  for  me." 

It  chanced  the  song  that  Enid  sang  was  one 
Of  Fortune  and  her  wheel,  and  Enid  sang : 

"Turn,  Fortune,  turn  thy  wheel  and  lower  the 

proud; 

Turn  thy  wild  wheel  thro'  sunshine,  storm,  and  cloud ; 
t        Thy  wheel  and  thee  we  neither  love  nor  hate. 

"  Turn,  Fortune,  turn  thy  wheel  with   smile  or 

frown ; 

With  that  wild  wheel  we  go  not  up  or  down ; 
Our  hoard  is  little,  but  our  hearts  are  great. 

"Smile  and  we  smile,  the  lords  of  many  lands; 
Frown  and  we  smile,  the  lords  of  onr  own  hands ; 
For  man  is  man  and  master  of  his  fate. 

"  Turn,  turn  thy  wheel  above  the  staring  crowd ; 
Thy  wheel  and  thou  are  shadows  in  the  cloud ; 
Thy  wheel  and  thee  we  neither  love  nor  hate." 

"  Hark,  by  the  bird's  song  you  may  learn  the  nest," 
Said  Yniol:  "Enter  quickly."    Entering  then, 
Bight  o'er  a  mount  of  newly-fallen  stones, 
The  dusty-rafter'd  many-cobweb'd  Hall, 
He  found  an  ancient  dame  in  dim  brocade; 
And  near  her,  like  a  blossom  vermeil- white, 
That  lightly  breaks  a  faded  flower-sheath, 
Moved  the  fair  Enid,  all  in  faded  silk, 
Her  daughter.    In  a  moment  thought  Geraint, 
"  Here  by  God's  rood  is  the  one  maid  for  me." 
But  none  spake  word  except  the  hoary  Earl: 
"  Enid,  the  good  knight's  horse  stands  in  the  court ; 
Take  him  to  stall,  and  give  him  corn,  and  then 
Go  to  the  town  and  buy  us  flesh  and  wine : 
And  we  will  make  us  merry  as  we  may. 
Our  hoard  is  little,  but  our  hearts  are  great" 

He  spake:  the  Prince,  as  Enid  past  him,  fain 
To  follow,  strode  a  stride,  but  Yniol  caught 
His  purple  scarf,  and  held,  and  said  "Forbear! 
Rest !  the  good  house,  tho'  ruin'd,  O  my  Son, 
Endures  not  that  her  guest  should  serve  himself." 
And  reverencing  the  custom  of  the  house 
Geraint,  from  utter  courtesy,  forbore. 

So  Enid  took  his  charger  to  the  stall ; 
And  after  went  her  way  across  the  bridge, 
And  reach'd  the  town,  and  while  the  Prince  and  Earl 
Yet  spoke  together,  came  again  with  one, 
A  youth,  that  following  with  a  costrel  bore 
The  means  of  goodly  welcome,  flesh  and  wine. 
And  Enid  brought  sweet  cakes  to  make  them  cheer, 
And  in  her  veil  enfolded,  manchet  bread. 
And  then,  because  their  half  must  also  serve 
For  kitchen,  boil'd  the  flesh,  and  spread  the  board, 
And  stood  behind,  and  waited  on  the  three. 
And  seeing  her  so  sweet  and  serviceable, 
Geraint  had  longing  in  him  evermore 
To  stoop  and  kiss  the  tender  little  thumb, 
That  crost  the  trencher  as  she  laid  it  down: 
But  after  all  had  eaten,  then  Geraint, 
For  now  the  wine  made  summer  in  his  veins, 
Let  his  eye  rove  in  following,  or  rest 
On  Enid  at  her  lowly  handmaid-work, 
Now  here,  now  there,  about  the  dusky  hall : 
Then  suddenly  addrest  the  hoary  Earl. 


"Fair  Host  and  Earl,  I  pray  your  courtesy: 
This  sparrow-hawk,  what  is  he,  tell  me  of  him. 
His  name?  but  no,  good  faith,  I  will  not  have  it: 
For  if  he  be  the  knight  whom  late  I  saw 
Ride  into  that  new  fortress  by  your  town, 
White  from  the  mason's  hand,  then  have  I  sworn 
From  his  own  lips  to  have  it— I  am  Geraiut 
Of  Devon— for  this  morning  when  the  Queen 
Sent  her  own  maiden  to  demand  the  name, 
His  dwarf,  a  vicious  under-shapeu  thing, 
Struck  at  her  with  his  whip,  and  she  return'd 
Indignant  to  the  Queen;  and  then  I  swore 
That  I  would  track  this  caitiff  to  his  hold, 
And  fight  and  break  his  pride,  and  have  it  of  him. 
And  all  unarm'd  I  rode,  and  thought  to  find 
Arms  in  your  town,  where  all  the  men  are  mad ; 
They  take  the  rustic  murmur  of  their  bourg 
For  the  great  wave  that  echoes  round  the  world : 
They  would  not  hear  me  speak:  but  if  you  know 
Where  I  can  light  on  arms,  or  if  yourself 
Should  have  them,  tell  me,  seeing  I  have  sworn 
That  I  will  break  his  pride  and  learn  his  name, 
Avenging  this  great  insult  done  the  Queen." 

Then  cried  Yniol:  "Art  thou  he  indeed, 
Geraint,  a  name  far-sounded  among  men 
For  noble  deeds?  and  truly  I,  when  first 
I  saw  you  moving  by  me  on  the  bridge, 
Felt  you  were  somewhat,  yea  and  by  your  state 
And  presence  might  have  guess' a  you  one  of  thosr 
That  eat  in  Arthur's  hall  at  Camelot 
Nor  speak  I  now  from  foolish  flattery ; 
For  this  dear  child  hath  often  heard  me  praise 
Your  feats  of  arms,  and  often  when  1  paused 
Hath  ask'd  again,  and  ever  loved  to  hear ; 
So  grateful  is  the  noise  of  noble  deeds 
To  noble  hearts  who  see  but  acts  of  wrong : 

0  never  yet  had  woman  such  a  pair 

Of  suitors  as  this  maiden ;  first  Limonrs, 
A  creature  wholly  given  to  brawls  and  wine, 
Drunk  even  when  he  woo'd ;  and  be  he  dead 

1  know  not,  but  he  passed  to  the  wild  laud. 
The  second  was  your  foe,  the  sparrow-hawk, 
My  curse,  my  nephew,— I  will  not  let  his  name 
Slip  from  my  lips  if  I  can  help  it,— he, 
When  I  that  knew  him  fierce  and  turbulent 
Refused  her  to  him,  then  his  pride  awoke ; 
And  since  the  proud  man  often  is  the  mean, 
He  sowed  a  slander  in  the  common  ear, 
Aflirming  that  his  father  left  him  gold, 

And  in  my  charge,  which  was  not  render'd  to  him : 

Bribed  with  large  promises  the  men  who  served 

About  my  person,  the  more  easily 

Because  my  means  were  somewhat  broken  into 

Thro'  open  doors  and  hospitality; 

Raised  my  own  town  against  me  in  the  night 

Before  my  Enid's  birthday,  sack'd  my  house 

From  mine  own  earldom  foully  ousted  me; 

Built  that  new  fort  to  overawe  my  friends, 

For  truly  there  are  those  who  love  me  yet; 

And  keeps  me  in  this  ruinous  castle  here, 

Where  doubtless  he  would  put  me  soon  to  death,   : 

But  that  his  pride  too  much  despises  me : 

And  I  myself  sometimes  despise  myself: 

For  I  have  let  men  be,  and  have  their  way ; 

And  much  too  gentle,  have  not  used  my  power: 

Nor  know  I  whether  I  be  very  base 

Or  very  manful,  whether  very  wise 

Or  very  foolish ;  only  this  I  know, 

That  whatsoever  evil  happen  to  me, 

I  seem  to  suffer  nothing  heart  or  limb, 

But  can  endure  it  all  most  patiently." 

"Well    said,  true    heart,"  replied    Geraiut,  "bnt 

arms: 

That  if,  as  I  suppose,  your  nephew  fights 
In  next  day's  tourney  I  may  break  his  pride." 


ENID. 


155 


And  Yuiol  answer'd:  "Arms,  indeed,  but  old 
And  rusty,  old  and  rusty,  Prince  Geraint, 
Are  mine,  and  therefore  at  your  asking,  yours, 
But  iii  this  tournament  can  110  man  tilt, 
Except  the  lady  he  loves  best  be  there. 
Two  forks  are  fixt  into  the  meadow  ground, 
And  over  these  is  laid  a  silver  wand, 
And  over  that  is  placed  the  sparrow-hawk, 
The  prize  of  beauty  for  the  fairest  there. 
And  this,  what  knight  soever  be  in  field 
Lays  claim  to  for  the  lady  at  his  side, 
And  tilts  with  my  good  nephew  thereupon, 
Who  being  apt  at  arms  and  big  of  bone 
Has  ever  won  it  for  the  lady  with  him, 
And  toppling  over  all  antagonism 
Has  earn'd  himself  the  name  of  sparrow-hawk, 
But  you,  that  have  no  lady,  cannot  fight." 

To  whom  Geraint  with  eyes  all  bright  replied, 
Leaning  a  little  toward  him,  "  Your  leave ! 
Let  me  lay  lance  in  rest,  O  noble  host, 
For  this  dear  child,  because  1  never  saw, 
Tho'  having  seen  all -beauties  of  our  time, 
Nor  can  see  elsewhere,  anything  so  fair. 
And  if  1  fall  her  name  will  yet  remain 
Untarnish'd  as  before ;  but  if  I  live, 
So  aid  me  Heaven  when  at  mine  uttermost,' 
As  I  will  make  her  truly  my  true  wife." 

Then,  howsoever  patient,  Yniol's  heart 
Danced  in  his  bosom,  seeing  better  days, 
And  looking  round  he  saw  not  Enid  there, 
(Who  hearing  her  own  name  had  slipt  away) 
But  that  old  dame,  to  whom  full  tenderly 
And  fondling  all  her  hand  in  his  he  said, 
"  Mother,  a  maiden  is  a  tender  thing, 
And  best  by  her  that  bore  her  understood. 
Go  thou  to  rest,  but  ere  thou  go  to  rest 
Tell  her,  and  prove  her  heart  toward  the  Prince." 

So  spake  the  kindly-hearted  Earl,  and  she 
With  frequent  smile  and  nod  departing  found, 
Half  disarray'd  as  to  her  rest,  the  girl ; 
Whom  first  she  kiss'd  on  either  cheek,  and  then 
On  either  shining  shoulder  laid  a  hand, 
And  kept  her  off  and  gazed  upon  her  face, 
And  told  her  all  their  converse  in  the  hall, 
Proving  her  heart ;  but  never  light  and  shade 
Coursed  one  another  more  on  open  ground 
Beneath  a  troubled  heaven,  than  red  and  pale 
Across  the  face  of  Enid  hearing  her ; 
Whilst  slowly  falling  as  a  scale  that  falls, 
When  weight  is  added  only  grain  by  grain, 
Sank  her  sweet  head  upon  her  gentle  breast; 
Nor  did  she  lift  an  eye  nor  speak  a  word, 
Kapt  in  the  fear  and  in  the  wonder  of  it ; 
So  moving  without  answer  to  her  rest 
She  found  no  rest,  and  ever  fail'd  to  draw 
The  quiet  night  into  her  blood,  but  lay 
Contemplating  her  own  unworthiness ; 
And  when  the  pale  and  bloodless  east  began 
To  quicken  to  the  sun,  arose,  and  raised 
Her  mother  too,  and  hand  in  hand  they  moved 
Down  to  the  meadow  where  the  jousts  were  held, 
And  waited  there  for  Yuiol  and  Geraint 

And  thither  came  the  twain,  and  when  Geraint 
Beheld  her  first  in  field,  awaiting  him, 
He  felt,  were  she  the  prize  of  bodily  force, 
Himself  beyond  the  rest  pushing  could  move 
The  chair  of  Idris.    Yniol's  rusted  arms 
Were  on  his  princely  person,  but  thro'  these 
Princelike  his  bearing  shone ;  and  errant  knights 
And  ladies  came,  and  by  and  by  the  town 
Flow'd  in,  and  settling  circled  all  the  lists. 
And  there  they  fist  the  forks  into  the  ground, 
And  over  these  they  placed  a  silver  wand, 
And  over  that  a  golden  sparrow-hawk. 


Then  Yniol's  nephew,  after  trumpet  blown, 
Spake  to  the  lady  with  him  and  proclaim'd, 
"Advance  and  take  as  fairest  of  the  fair, 
For  I  these  two  years  past  have  won  it  for  thee, 
The  prize  of  beauty."    Loudly  spake  the  Prince, 
"Forbear:  there  is  a  worthier,"  and  the  knight 
With  some  surprise  and  thrice  as  much  disdain 
Turn'd,  and  beheld  the  four,  and  all  his  face 
Glow'd  like  the  heart  of  a  great  fire  at  Yule, 
So  burnt  he  was  with  passion,  crying  out, 
"  Do  battle  for  it  then,"  no  more ;  and  thrice 
They  clash'd  together,  and  thrice  they  brake  their 

spears. 

Then  each,  dishorsed  and  drawing,  lash'd  at  each 
So  often,  and  with  such  blows,  that  all  the  crowd 
Wonder'd,  and  now  and  then  from  distant  walls 
There  came  a  clapping  as  of  phantom  hands. 
So  twice  they  fought,  and  twice  they  breathed,  and 

still 

The  dew  of  their  great  labor,  and  the  blood 
Of  their  strong  bodies,  flowing,  drain'd  their  force. 
But  cither's  force  was  match'd  till  Yniol's  cry, 
"Remember  that  great  insult  done  the  Queen," 
Increased  Geraint's,  who  heaved  his  blade  aloft, 
And  crack'd  the  helmet  thro',  and  bit  the  bone, 
And  fell'd  him,  and  set  foot  upon  his  breast, 
And  said,  "Thy  name?"    To  whom  the  fallen  man 
Made  answer,  groaning,  "  Edyrn,  son  of  Nudd ! 
Ashamed  am  I  that  I  should  tell  it  thee. 
My  pride  is  broken :  men  have  seen  my  fall." 
"Then,  Edyrn,  son  of  Nudd,"  replied  Geraint, 
"These  two  things  shalt  thon  do,  or  else  thou  dieet. 
First,  thou  thyself,  thy  lady  and  thy  dwarf, 
Shalt  ride  to  Arthur's  court,  and  being  there, 
Crave  pardon  for  that  insult  done  the  Queen, 
And  shalt  abide  her  judgment  on  it ;  next, 
Thou  shalt  give  back  their  earldom  to  thy  kin. 
These  two  things  shalt  thou  do,  or  thou  shalt  die." 
And  Edyrn  answer'd,  "These  things  will  I  do, 
For  I  have  never  yet  been  overthrown, 
And  thou  hast  overthrown  me,  and. my  pride 
Is  broken  down,  for  Enid  sees  my  fall !"  j 

And  rising  up,  he  rode  to  Arthur's  court, 
And  there  the  Queen  forgave  him  easily. 
And  being  young,  he  changed  himself,  and  grew 
To  hate  the  sin  that  seem'd  so  like  his  own, 
Of  Modred,  Arthur's  nephew,  and  fell  at  last 
In  the  great  battle  fighting  for  the  king. 

But  when  the  third  day  from  the  hunting-morn 
Made  a  low  splendor  in  the  world,  and  wings 
Moved  in  her  ivy,  Enid,  for  she  lay 
With  her  fair  head  in  the  dim-yellow  light, 
Among  the  dancing  shadows  of  the  birds, 
Woke  and  bethought  her  of  her  promise  given 
No  later  than  last  eve  to  Prince  Geraint— 
So  bent  he  seem'd  on  going  the  third  day, 
He  would  not  leave  her,  till  her  promise  given— 
To  ride  with  him  this  morning  to  the  court, 
And  there  be  made  known  to  the  stately  Queen, 
And  there  be  wedded  with  all  ceremony. 
At  this  she  cast  her  eyes  upon  her  dress, 
And  thought  it  never  yet  had  look'd  so  mean. 
For  as  a  leaf  in  mid-November  is 
To  what  it  was  in  mid-October,  seem'd 
The  dress  that  now  she  look'd  on  to  the  dress 
She  look'd  on  ere  the  coming  of  Geraint 
And  still  she  look'd,  and  still  the  terror  grew 
Of  that  strange  bright  and  dreadful  thing,  a  court, 
All  staring  at  her  in  her  faded  silk: 
And  softly  to  her  own  sweet  heart  she  said: 

"  This  noble  Prince  who  won  our  earldom  back. 
So  splendid  in  his  acts  and  his  attire, 
Sweet  heaven !  how  much  I  shall  discredit  him ! 
Would  he  could  tarry  with  us  here  awhile ! 
But  being  so  beholden  to  the  Prince 
It  were  but  little  grace  in  any  of  us, 


1-56 


ENID. 


Bent  as  he  seem'cl  on  going  this  third  day, 
To  seek  a  second  favor  at  his  hands. 
Yet  if  he  could  but  tarry  a  day  or  two, 
Myself  would  work  eye  dim,  and  finger  lame, 
Far  liefer  than  so  much  discredit  him." 

And  Enid  fell  in  longing  for  a  dress 
All  branch'd  and  flower'd  with  gold,  a  costly  gift 
Of  her  good  mother,  given  her  on  the  night 
Before  her  birthday,  three  sad  years  ago, 
That  night  of  fire,  when  Edyrn  sack'd  their  house, 
And  scatter'd  all  they  had  to  all  the  winds : 
For  while  the  mother  show'd  it,  and  the  two 
Were  turning  and  admiring  it,  the  work 
To  both  appear'd  so  costly,  rose  a  cry 
That  Edyrn's  men  were  on  them,  and  they  fled 
With  little  save  the  jewels  they  had  on, 
Which  being  sold  and  sold  had  bought  them  bread : 
And  Edyrn's  men  had  caught  them  in  their  flight, 
And  placed  them  in  this  ruin ;  and  she  wish'd 
The  Prince  had  found  her  in  her  ancient  home ; 
Then  let  her  fancy  flit  across  the  past, 
And  roam  the  goodly  places  that  she  knew; 
And  last  bethought  her  how  she  used  to  watch, 
Near  that  old  home,  a  pool  of  golden  carp ; 
And  one  was  patch'd  and  blnrr'd  and  lustreless 
Among  his  burnish'd  brethren  of  the  pool ; 
And  half  asleep  she  made  comparison 
Of  that  and  these  to  her  own  faded  self 
And  the  gay  court,  and  fell  asleep  again : 
4  And  dreamt  herself  was  such  a  faded  form 
Among  her  burnish'd  sisters  of  the  pool ; 
But  this  was  in  the  garden  of  a  king; 
And  tho'  she  lay  dark  in  the  pool,  ehe  knew 
That  all  was  bright;  that  all  about  were  birds 
Of  sunny  plume  in  gilded  trellis-work  ; 
That  all  the  turf  was  rich  in  plots  that  look'd 
Each  like  a  garnet  or  a  turkis  in  it; 
And  lords  and  ladies  of  the  high  court  went 
In  silver  tissue  talking  things  of  state ; 
And  children  of  the  king  in  cloth  of  gold 
Glanced  at  the  doors  or  gambol'd  down  the  walks; 
And  while  she  thought  "they  will  noteee  me,"  came 
A  stately  queen  whose  name  was  Guinevere, 
And  all  the  children  in  their  cloth  of  gold 
Ran  to  her,  crying,  "If  we  have  fish  at  all 
Let  them  be  gold:  and  charge  the  gardeners  now, 
To  pick  the  faded  creature  from  the  pool, 
And  cast  it  on  the  mixen  that  it  die." 
And  therewithal  one  came  and  seized  on  her, 
And  Enid  started  waking,  with  her  heart 
All  overshadow'd  by  the  foolish  dream, 
And  lo !  it  was  her  mother  grasping  her 
To  get  her  well  awake;  and  in  her  hand 
A  suit  of  bright  apparel,  which  she  laid 
Flat  on  the  couch,  and  spoke  exultingly: 

"See  here,  my  child,  how  fresh  the  colors  look, 
How  fast  they  hold,  like  colors  of  a  shell 
That  keeps  the  wear  and  polish  of  the  wave. 
Why  not  f  it  never  yet  was  worn,  I  trow ; 
Look  on  it,  child,  and  tell  me  if  you  know  it" 

And  Enid  look'd,  but  all  confused  at  first, 
Could  scarce  divide  it  from  her  foolish  dream, 
Then  suddenly  she  knew  it  and  rejoiced, 
And  answer'd,  "  Yea,  I  know  it ;  your  good  gift, 
So  sadly  lost  on  that  unhappy  night; 
Your  own  good  gift  1"    "  Yea,  snrely,"  said  the  dame, 
"And  gladly  given  again  this  happy  morn. 
For  when  the  jousts  were  ended  yesterday, 
Went  Yniol  thro'  the  town,  and  everywhere 
He  found  the  sack  and  plunder  of  our  house 
All  scatter'd  thro'  the  houses  of  the  town : 
And  gave  command  that  all  which  once  was  ours, 
Should  now  be  ours  again :  and  yester-eve, 
While  you  were  talking  sweetly  with  your  Prince, 
Came  one  with  this  and  laid  it  in  my  hand, 


For  love  or  fear,  or  seeking  favor  of  us, 

Because  we  have  our  earldom  back  again. 

And  yester-eve  I  would  not  tell  you  of  it, 

But  kept  it  for  a  sweet  surprise  at  morn. 

Yea,  truly  is  it  not  a  sweet  surprise  ? 

For  I  myself  unwillingly  have  worn 

My  faded  suit,  as  you,  my  child,  have  yours, 

And  howsoever  patient,  Yniol  his. 

Ah,  dear,  he  took  me  from  a  goodly  house, 

With  store  of  rich  apparel,  sumptuous  fare, 

And  page,  and  maid,  and  squire,  and  seneschal, 

And  pastime,  both  of  hawk  and  hound,  and  all 

That  appertains  to  noble  maintenance. 

Yea,  and  he  brought  me  to  a  goodly  house ; 

But  since  our  fortune  slipt  from  sun  to  shade, 

And  all  thro'  that  young  traitor,  cruel  need 

Constrain'd  ns,  but  a  better  time  has  come ; 

So  clothe  yourself  in  this,  that  better  fits 

Our  mended  fortunes  and  a  Prince's  bride: 

For  tho'  you  won  the  prize  of  fairest  fair, 

And  tho'  I  heard  him  call  you  fairest  fair, 

Let  never  maiden  think,  however  fair, 

She  is  not  fairer  in  new  clothes  than  old. 

And  should  some  great  court-lady  say,  the  Prince 

Hath  pick'd  a  ragged-robin  from  the  hedge, 

And  like  a  madman  brought  her  to  the  court, 

Then  were  you  shamed,  and  worse,  might  shame  the 

Prince 

To  whom  we  are  beholden ;  but  I  know, 
When  my  dear  child  is  set  forth  at  her  best, 
That  neither  court  nor  country,  tho'  they  sought 
Thro'  all  the  provinces  like  those  of  old 
That  lighted  on  Queen  Esther,  has  her  match." 

Here  ceased  the  kindly  mother  out  of  breath ; 
And  Enid  listen'd  brightening  as  she  lay; 
Then,  as  the  white  and  glittering  star  of  morn 
Parts  from  a  bank  of  snow,  and  by  and  by 
Slips  into  golden  cloud,  the  maiden  rose, 
And  left  her  maiden  couch,  and  robed  herself, 
Help'd  by  the  mother's  careful  hand  and  eye, 
Without  a  mirror,  in  the  gorgeous  gown : 
Who,  after,  turn'd  her  daughter  round,  and  said, 
She  never  yet  had  seen  her  half  so  fair ; 
And  call'd  her  like  that  maiden  in  the  tale, 
Whom  Gwydion  made  by  glamour  out  of  flowers, 
And  sweeter  than  the  bride  of  Cassivelaun, 
Flur,  for  whose  love  the  Roman  Caesar  first 
Invaded  Britain,  "but  we  beat  him  back, 
As  this  great  Prince  invaded  us,  and  we, 
Not  beat  him  back,  but  welcomed  him  with  joy. 
And  I  can  scarcely  ride  with  you  to  court, 
For  old  am  I,  and  rough  the  ways  and  wild: 
But  Yniol  goes,  and  I  full  oft  shall  dream 
I  see  my  princess  as  I  see  her  now, 
Cloth'd  with  my  gift,  and  gay  among  the  gay." 

But  while  the  women  thus  rejoiced,  Geraint 
Woke  where  he  slept  in  the  high  hall,  and  call'd 
For  Enid,  and  when  Yniol  made  report 
Of  that  good  mother  making  Enid  gay 
In  such  apparel  as  might  well  beseem 
His  princess,  or  indeed  the  stately  queen, 
He  answer'd,  "Earl,  entreat  her  by  my  love, 
Albeit  I  give  no  reason  but  my  wish, 
That  she  ride  with  me  in  her  faded  silk." 
Yniol  with  that  hard  message  went;  it  fell, 
Like  flaws  in  summer  laying  lusty  corn: 
For  Enid,  all  abash'd,  she  knew  not  why, 
Dared  not  to  glance  at  her  good  mother's  face, 
But  silently,  in  all  obedience, 
Her  mother  silent  too,  nor  helping  her, 
Laid  from  her  limbs  the  costly-broider'd  gift, 
And  robed  them  in  her  ancient  suit  again, 
And  so  descended.    Never  man  rejoiced 
More  than  Geraint  to  greet  her  thus  attired: 
And  glancing  all  at  once  as  keenly  at  h«r, 
As  careful  robins  eye  the  dclver's  toil, 


EXID. 


Made  her  cheek  burn  and  either  eyelid  fall, 
But  rested  with  her  sweet  face  satisfied ; 
Then  seeing  cloud  upon  the  mother's  brow, 
Iler  by  both  hands  he  caught,  and  sweetly  said: 

"  O  my  new  mother,  be  not  wroth  or  grieved 
At  your  new  son,  for  my  petition  to  her. 
When  late  I  left  Caerleon,  our  great  Queen, 
In  words  whose  echo  lasts,  they  were  so  sweet, 
Made  promise  that  whatever  bride  I  brought, 
Herself  would  clothe  her  like  the  sun  iu  Heaven. 
Thereafter,  when  I  reach'd  this  ruin'd  hold, 
Beholding  one  so  bright  in  dark  estate, 
I  vow'd  that  could  I  gain  her,  our  kind  Queen, 
No  hand  but  hers,  should  make  your  Enid  burst 
Snnlike  from  cloud— and  likewise  thought  perhaps, 
That  service  done  so  graciously  would  bind 
The  two  together;  for  I  wish  the  two 
To  love  each  other :  how  should  Enid  find 
A  nobler  friend  ?    Another  thought  I  had  ; 
I  came  among  yon  here  so  suddenly, 
That  tho1  her  gentle  presence  at  the  lists 
Might  well  have  served  for  proof  that  I  was  loved, 
I  doubted  whether  filial  tenderness, 
Or  easy  nature,  did  not  let  itself 
Be  moulded  by  your  wishes  for  her  weal ; 
Or  whether  some  false  sense  in  her  own  self 
Of  my  contrasting  brightness,  overbore 
Her  fancy  dwelling  in  this  dusky  hall ; 
And  such  a  sense  might  make  her  long  for  court 
And  all  its  dangerous  glories:  and  I  thought, 
That  could  I  someway  prove  such  force  in  her 
Liuk'd  with  such  love  for  me,  that  at  a  word 
(No  reason  given  her)  she  could  cast  aside 
A  splendor  dear  to  women,  new  to  her, 
And  therefore  dearer ;  or  if  not  so  new, 
Yet  therefore  tenfold  dea-rer  by  the  power 
Of  intermitted  custom ;  then  1  felt 
That  I  could  rest,  a  rock  in  ebbs  and  flows, 
Fixt  on  her  faith.    Now,  therefore,  I  do  rest, 
A  prophet  certain  of  my  prophecy, 
That  never  shadow  of  mistrust  can  cross 
Between  us.    Grant  me  pardon  for  my  thoughts : 
And  for  my  strange  petition  I  will  make 
Amends  hereafter  by  some  gaudy-day, 
When  your  fair  child  shall  wear  your  costly  gift 
Beside  your  own  warm  hearth,  with,  on  her  kuees, 
Who  knows?  another  gift  of  the  high  God, 
Which,  maybe,  shall  have  learn'd  to  lisp  you  thanks." 

He  spoke :  the  mother  smiled,  but  half  in  tears, 
Then  brought  a  mantle  down  and  wrapt  her  iu  it, 
And  claspt  and  kiss'd  her,  and  they  rode  away. 

Now  thrice  that  morning  Guinevere  had  climb'd 
The  giant  tower,  from  whose  high  crest,  they  say, 
Men  saw  the  goodly  hills  of  Somerset, 
And  white  sails  flying  on  the  yellow  sea; 
But  not  to  goodly  hill  or  yellow  sea 
Look'd  the  fair  Queen,  but  up  the  vale  of  Usk, 
By  the  flat  meadow,  till  she  saw  them  come; 
And  then  descending  met  them  at  the  gates, 
Embraced  her  with  all  welcome  as  a  friend, 
And  did  her  honor  as  the  Prince's  bride, 
And  clothed  her  for  her  bridals  like  the  sun ; 
And  all  that  week  was  old  Caerleon  gay, 
For  By  the  hands  of  Dubric,  the  high  saint, 
They  twain  were  wedded  with  all  ceremony. 

And  this  was  on  the  last  year's  Whitsuntide. 
But  Enid  ever  kept  the  faded  silk, 
Remembering  how  first  he  came  on  her, 
Brest  in  that  dress,  and  how  he  loved  her  in  it, 
And  all  her  fo61ish  fears  about  the  dress, 
And  all  his  journey  toward  her,  as  himself 
Had  told  her,  and  their  coming  to  the  court. 

And  now  this  morning  when  he  said  to  her, 
'•  Put  on  your  worst  and  meanest  dress,"  she  found 
And  took  it,  and  array'd  herself  therein. 


O  purblind  race  of  miserable  men, 
How  many  among  us  at  this  very  hour 
Do  forge  a  life-long  trouble  for  ourselves, 
By  taking  true  for  false,  or  false  for  true ; 
Here,  thro'  the  feeble  twilight  of  this  world 
Groping,  how  many,  until  we  pass  and  reach 
That  other,  where  we  see  as  we  are  seen ! 

So  fared  it  with  Geraint,  who  issuing  forth 
That  morning,  when  they  both  had  got  to  horse, 
Perhaps  because  he  loved  her  passionately, 
And  felt  that  tempest  brooding  round  his  heart, 
Which,  if  he  spoke  at  all,  would  break  perforce 
Upon  a  head  so  dear  in  thunder,  said : 
"Not  at  my  side!  I  charge  you  ride  before, 
Ever  a  good  way  on  before ;  and  this 
I  charge  you,  on  your  duty  as  a  wife, 
Whatever  happens,  not  to  speak  to  me, 
No,  not  a  word !"  and  Enid  was  aghast ; 
And  forth  they  rode,  but  scarce  three  paces  on, 
When  crying  out,  "Effeminate  as  I  am, 
I  will  not  fight  my  way  with  gilded  arms, 
All  shall  be  iron ;"  he  loosed  a  mighty  purse, 
Hung  at  his  belt,  and  hurl'd  it  toward  the  squire. 
So  the  last  sight  that  Enid  had  of  home 
Was  all  the  marble  threshold  flashing,  strowu 
With  gold  and  scatter'd  coinage,  and  the  squire 
Chafing  his  shoulder;  then  he  cried  again, 
"To  the  wilds:"  and  Enid  leading  down  the  tracks 
Thro'  which  he  bade  her  lead  him  on,  they  past 
The  marches,  and  by  bandit-haunted  holds, 
Gray  swamps  and  pools,  waste  places  of  the  hern, 
And  wildernesses,  perilous  paths,  they  rode : 
Round  was  their  pace  at  first,  but  slacken'd  soon : 
A  stranger  meeting  them  had  surely  thought, 
They  rode  so  slowly  and  they  look'd  so  pale, 
That  each  had  sufTer'd  some  exceeding  wrong. 
For  he  was  ever  saying  to  himself, 
"  O  I  that  wasted  time  to  tend  upon  her, 
To  compass  her  with  sweet  observances, 
To  dress  her  beautifully  and  keep  her  true  " — 
And  there  he  broke  the  sentence  iu  his  heart 
Abruptly,  as  a  man  upon  his  tongue 
May  break  it,  when  his  passion  masters  him. 
And  she  was  ever  praying  the  sweet  heavens 
To  save  her  dear  lord  whole  from  any  wound. 
And  ever  in  her  mind  she  cast  about 
For  that  unnoticed  failing  in  herself, 
Which  made  him  look  so  cloudy  and  so  cold ; 
Till  the  great  plover's  human  whistle  amazed 
Her  heart,  and  glancing  round  the  waste  she  fear'd 
In  every  wavering  brake  an  ambuscade. 
Then  thought  again  "If  there  be  such  in  me, 
I  might  amend  it  by  the  grace  of  heaveu, 
If  he  would  only  speak  and  tell  me  of  it." 

But  when  the  fourth  part  of  the  day  was  gone, 
Then  Enid  was  aware  of  three  tall  knights 
On  horseback,  wholly  arm'd,  behind  a  rock 
In  shadow,  waiting  for  them,  caitiffs  all; 
And  heard  one  crying  to  his  fellow,  "Look, 
Here  comes  a  laggard  hanging  down  his  head, 
Who  seems  no  bolder  than  a  beaten  hound; 
Come,  we  will  slay  him,  and  will  have  his  horse 
And  armor,  and  his  damsel  shall  he  ours." 

Then  Enid  ponder'd  in  her  heart,  and  said : 
"  I  will  go  back  a  little  to  my  lord, 
And  I  will  tell  him  all  their  caitiff  talk; 
For,  be  he  wroth  even  to  slaying  me, 
Far  liever  by  his  dear  hand  had  I  die, 
Than  that  my  lord  should  sufler  loss  or  shame." 

Then  she  went  back  some  paces  of  return, 
Met  his  full  frown  timidly  firm,  and  said : 
"My  lord,  I  saw  three  bandits  by  the  rock 
Waiting  to  fall  on  you,  and  heard  them  boast 
That  they  would  slay  you,  and  possess  your  horse 
And  armor,  and  your  damsel  should  be  theirs." 


153 


ENID. 


He  made  a  wrathful  answer.    "  Did  I  wish 
Your  warning  or  your  silence?  one  command 
I  laid  upon  you,  not  to  speak  to  me, 
And  thus  you  keep  it !    Well  then,  look— for  now, 
Whether  you  wish  me  victory  or  defeat, 
Long  for  my  life,  or  hunger  for  my  death, 
Yourself  shall  see  my  vigor  is  not  lost." 

Theu  Enid  waited,  pale  and  sorrowful,     • 
And  down  upon  him  bare  the  bandit  three. 
And  at  the  midmost  charging,  Prince  Geraint 
Drave  the  long  spear  a  cubit  thro'  his  breast    . 
And  out  beyond ;  and  then  against  his  brace 
Of  comrades,  each  of  whom  had  broken  on  him 
A  lance  that  splinter'd  like  an  icicle, 
Swung  from  his  brand  a  windy  buffet  out 
Once,  twice,  to  right,  to  left,  and  stunn'd  the  twain 
Or  slew  them,  and  dismounting  like  a  man 
That  skins  the  wild  beast  after  slaying  him, 
Stript  from  the  three  dead  wolves  of  woman  born 
The  three  gay  suits  of  armor  which  they  wore, 
And  let  the  bodies  lie,  but  bound  the  suits 
Of  armor  on  their  horses,  each  on  each, 
And  tied  the  bridle-reins  of  all  the  three 
Together,  and  said  to  her,  "Drive  them  on 
Before  you ;"  and  she  drove  them  thro'  the  waste. 

He  follow'd  nearer:  ruth  began  to  work 
Against  his  anger  in  him,  while  he  watch'd 
The  being  he  loved  best  in  all  the  world, 
With  difficulty  in  mild  obedience 
Driving  them  on :  he  fain  had  spoken  to  her, 
And  loosed  in  words  of  sudden  flre  the  wrath 
And  smoulder'd  wrong  that  burnt  him  all  within  ; 
But  evermore  it  seem'd  an  easier  thing 
At  once  without  remorse  to  strike  her  dead, 
Than  to  cry  "Halt,"  and  to  her  own  bright  face 
Accuse  her  of  the  least  immodesty : 
And  thus  tongue-tied,  it  made  him  wroth  the  more 
That  she  could  speak  whom  his  own  ear  had  heard 
Call  herself  false :  and  suffering  thus  he  made 
Minutes  an  age :  but  in  scarce  longer  time 
Than  at  Caerleon  the  full-tided  Usk, 
Before  he  turn  to  fall  seaward  again, 
Pauses,  did  Enid,  keeping  watch,  behold 
In  the  first  shallow  shade  of  a  deep  wood, 
Before  a  gloom  of  stubborn-shafted  oaks, 
Three  other  horsemen  waiting,  wholly  arm'd, 
Whereof  one  seem'd  far  larger  than  her  lord, 
And  shook  her  pulses,  crying,  "Look,  a  prize ! 
Three  horses  and  three  goodly  suits  of  arms, 
And  all  in  charge  of  whom  ?  a  girl :  set  on." 
<rNay,"  said  the  second,  "yonder  comes  a  knight." 
The  third,  "A  craven!  how  he  hangs  his  head." 
The  giant  answer'd  merrily,  "Yea,  but  one? 
Wait  here,  and  when  he  passes  fall  upon  him." 

And  Enid  ponder'd  in  her  heart  and  said, 
"  I  will  abide  the  coming  of  my  lord, 
And  I  will  tell  him  all  their  villany. 
My  lord  is  weary  with  the  fight  before, 
And  they  will  fall  upon  him  nnawares. 
I  needs  must  disobey  him  for  his  good; 
How  should  I  dare  obey  him  to  his  harm? 
Needs  must  I  speak,  and  tho1  he  kill  me  for  it, 
I  save  a  life  dearer  to  me  than  mine." 

And  she  abode  his  coming,  and  said  to  him 
With  timid  firmness,  "Have  I  leave  to  speak?" 
He  said,  "  You  take  it,  speaking,"  and  she  spoke. 

"There  lurk  three  villains  yonder  in  the  wood, 
And  each  of  them  is  wholly  arm'd,  and  one 
Is  larger-limb'd  than  you  are,  and  they  say 
That  they  will  fall  upon  you  while  you  pass." 

To  which  he  flung  a  wrathful  answer  back : 
"And  if  there  were  an  hundred  in  the  wood, 


And  every  man  were  larger-limb'd  than  I, 
And  all  at  once  should  sally  out  upon  me, 
I  swear  it  would  not  ruffle  me  so  much 
As  you  that  not  obey  me.    Stand  aside, 
And  if  I  fall,  cleave  to  the  better  man." 

And  Enid  stood  aside  to  wait  the  event, 
Not  dare  to  watch  the  combat,  only  breathe 
Short  fits  of  prayer,  at  every  stroke  a  breath. 
And  he,  she  dreaded  most,  bare  down  npon  him. 
Aim'd  at  the  helm,  his  lance  err'd;  but  Geraint'e, 
A  little  in  the  late  encounter  strain'd, 
Struck  thro'  the  bulky  bandit's  corselet  home, 
And  then  brake  short,  and  down  his  enemy  roll'd 
And  there  lay  still ;  as  he  that  tells  the  tale, 
Saw  once  a  great  piece  of  a  promontory, 
That  had  a  sapling  growing  on  it,  slip 
From  the  long  shore-cliff  js  windy  walls  to  the  beach, 
And  there  lie  still,  and  yet  the  sapling  grew : 
So  lay  the  man  transfixt.    His  craven  pair 
Of  comrades,  making  slowlier  at  the  Prince, 
When  now  they  saw  their  bulwark  fallen,  stood; 
On  whom  the  victor,  to  confound  them  more, 
Spnrr'd  with  his  terrible  war-cry ;  for  as  one, 
That  listens  near  a  torrent  mountain-brook, 
All  thro'  the  crash  of  the  near  cataract  hears 
The  drumming  thunder  of  the  huger  fall 
At  distance,  were  the  soldiers  wont  to  hear 
His  voice  in  battle,  and  be  kindled  by  it, 
And  foemen  scared,  like  that  false  pair  who  tnrn'd 
Flying,  but,  overtaken,  died  the  death 
Themselves  had  wrought  on  many  an  innocent 

Thereon  Geraint,  dismounting,  pick'd  the  lance 
That  pleased  him  best,  and  drew  from  those  dead 

wolves 

Their  three  gay  suits  of  armor,  each  from  each, 
And  bound  them  on  their  horses,  each  on  each, 
And  tied  the  bridle-reins  of  all  the  three 
Together,  and  said  to  her,  "Drive  them  on 
Before  yon,"  and  she  drove  them  thro'  the  wood. 

He  follow'd  nearer  still ;  the  pain  she  had 
To  keep  them  in  the  wild  ways  of  the  wood, 
Two  sets  of  three  laden  with  jingling  arms, 
Together,  served  a  little  to  disedge 
The  sharpness  of  that  pain  about  b,er  heart ; 
And  they  themselves,  like  creatures  gently  born 
But  into  bad  hands  fall'n,  and  now  so  long 
By  bandits  groom'd,  prick'd  their  light  ears,  and  felt 
Her  low  firm  voice  and  tender  goverrmeut. 

So  thro'  the  green  gloom  of  the  wood  they  past, 
And  issuing  under  open  heavens  beheld 
A  little  town  with  towers,  upon  a  rock, 
And  close  beneath,  a  meadow  gemlike  chased 
In  the  brown  wild,  and  mowers  mowing  in  it: 
And  down  a  rocky  pathway  from  the  place 
There  came  a  fair-haired  youth,  that  in  his  hand 
Bare  victual  for  the  mowers  :  and  Geraint 
Had  ruth  again  on  Enid  looking  pale : 
Then,  moving  downward  to  the  meadow  ground, 
He,  when  the  fair-hair'd.  youth  came  by  him,  said, 
"Friend,  let  her  eat;  the  damsel  is  BO  faint." 
"  Yea,  willingly,"  replied  the  youth  ;  "  and  you, 
My  lord,  eat  also,  tho'  the  fare  is  coarse, 
And  only  meet  for  mowers ;"  then  set  down 
His  basket,  and  dismounting  on  the  sward 
They  let  the  horses  graze  and  ate  themselves. 
And  Enid  took  a  little  delicately, 
Less  having  stomach  for  it  than  desire 
To  close  with  her-  lord's  pleasure ;  but  Geraint 
Ate  all  the  mowers'  victual  nnawares, 
And  when  he  found  all  empty,  was  amaz'd : 
And  "Boy,"  said  he,  "I  have  eaten  all,  but  take 
A  horse  and  arms  for  guerdon ;  choose  the  best." 
He,  reddening  in  extremity  of  delight, 
"My  lord,  you  overpay  me  fifty  fold." 


ENID. 


159 


"You  will  be  all  the  wealthier,"  cried  the  Prince. 

"I  take  it  as  free  gift,  then,"  said  the  boy, 

"  Not  guerdon ;  for  myself  can  easily, 

While  your  good  damsel  rests,  return,  and  fetch 

Fresh  victual  for  these  mowers  of  our  Earl ; 

For  these  are  his,  and  all  the  field  is  his, 

And  I  myself  am  his ;  and  I  will  tell  him 

How  great  a  man  you  are ;  he  loves  to  know 

When  men  of  mark  are  in  his  territory ; 

And  he  will  have  you  to  his  palace  here, 

And  serve  you  costlier  than  with  mowers'  fare," 

Then  said  Geraint,  "I  wish  no  better  fare: 
I  never  ate  with  angrier  appetite 
Than  when  I  left  your  mowers  dinnerless. 
And  into  no  Earl's  palace  will  I  go. 
I  know,  God  knows,  too  much  of  palaces ! 
And  if  he  want  me,  let  him  come  to  me. 
But  hire  us  some  fair  chamber  for  the  night, 
And  stalling  for  the  horses,  and  return 
With  victual  for  these  men,  and  let  us  know." 

"Yea,  my  kind  lord,"  said  the  glad  youth,  nnd  went, 
Held  his  head  high,  and  thought  himself  a  knight, 
And  up  the  rocky  pathway  disappear'd, 
Leading  the  horse,  and  they  were  left  alone. 

But  when  the  Prince  had  brought  his  errant  eyes 
Home  from  the  rock,  sideways  he  let  them  glance 
At  Enid,  where  she  droopt:  his  own  false  doom, 
That  shadow  of  mistrust  should  never  cross 
Betwixt  them,  came  upon  him,  and  he  sigh'd; 
Then  with  another  humorous  ruth  remark'd 
The  lusty  mowers  laboring  dinnerless, 
Aud  watch'd  the  sun  blaze  on  the  turning  scythe, 
And  after  nodded  sleepily  in  the  heat. 
But  she,  remembering  her  old  ruin'd  hall, 
And  all  the  windy  clamor  of  the  daws 
About  her  hollow  turret,  pluck'd  the  grass 
There  growing  longest  by  the  meadow's  edge, 
And  into  many  a  listless  amulet, 
Now  over,  now  beneath  her  marriage  ring, 
Wove  and  unwove  it,  till  the  boy  return'd 
And  told  them  of  a  chamber,  and  they  went ; 
Where,  after  saying  to  her,  "  If  you  will, 
Call  for  the  woman  of  the  house,"  to  which 
She  answer'd,  "  Thanks,  my  lord ;"  the  two  remain'd 
Apart  by  all  the  chamber's  width,  and  mute 
As  creatures  voiceless  thro'  the  fault  of  birth, 
Or  two  wild  men  supporters  of  a  shield, 
Painted,  who  stare  at  open  space,  nor  glance 
The  one  at  other,  parted  by  the  shield. 

On  a  sudden,  many  a  voice  along  the  gtreet, 
And  heel  against  the  pavement  echoing,  burst 
Their  drowse ;  and  either  started  while  the  door, 
Push'd  from  without,  drave  backward  to  the  wall, 
And  midmost  of  a  rout  of  roisterers, 
Femininely  fair  and  dissolutely  pale, 
Her  suitor  in  old  years  before  Geraint, 
Euter'd,  the  wild  lord  of  the  place,  Limours. 
He  moving  up  with  pliant  courtliness, 
Greeted  Geraint  full  face,  but  stealthily, 
In  the  mid-warmth  of  welcome  and  graspt  hand, 
Found  Enid  with  the  corner  of  his  eye, 
And  knew  her  sitting  sad  and  solitary. 
Then  cried  Geraint  for  wine  and  goodly  cheer 
To  feed  the  sudden  guest,  and  sumptuously 
According  to  his  fashion,  bade  the  host 
Call  in  what  men  soever  were  his  friends, 
And  feast  with  these  in  honor  of  their  earl ; 
"  And  care  not  for  the  cost ;  the  cost  ia  mine." 

And  wine  and  food  were  brought,  and  Earl  Limours 
Drank  till  he  jested  with  all  ease,  and  told 
Free  tales,  and  took  the  word  and  play'd  upon  it, 
And  made  it  of  two  colors ;  for  his  talk, 
When  wine  and  free  companions  kindled  him, 


Was  wont  to  glance  and  sparkle  like  a  gem 
Of  fifty  facets ;  thus  he  moved  the  Prince 
To  laughter  and  his  comrades  to  applause. 
Then,  when  the  Prince  was  merry,  ask'd  Limonrs, 
"Your  leave,  my  lord,  to  cross  the  room,  and  speak 
To  your  good  damsel  there  who  sits  apart 
And  seems  so  lonely  ?"    "  My  free  leave,"  he  said  i 
"Get  her  to  speak:  she  does  not  speak  to  me." 
Then  rose  Limonrs  and  looking  at  his  feet, 
Like  him  who  tries  the  bridge  he  fears  may  fail, 
Crost  and  came  near,  lifted  adoring  eyes, 
Bow'd  at  her  side  and  utter'd  whisperingly : 

"  Enid,  the  pilot  star  of  my  lone  life, 
Enid  my  early  and  my  only  love, 
Enid  the  loss  of  whom  has  tnrn'd  me  wild^ 
What  chance  is  this  ?  how  is  it  I  see  you  here  ? 
You  are  in  my  power  at  last,  are  in  my  power. 
Yet  fear  me  not :  I  call  mine  own  self  wild, 
But  keep  a  touch  of  sweet  civility 
Here  in  the  heart  of  waste  and  wilderness. 
I  thought,  but  that  your  father  came  between, 
In  former  days  you  saw  me  favorably. 
And  if  it  were  so  do  not  keep  it  back : 
Make  me  a  little  happier:  let  me  know  it.- 
Owe  you  me  nothing  for  a  life  half-lost? 
Yea,  yea,  the  whole  dear  debt  of  all  you  are. 
And,  Enid,  you  and  he,  I  see  it  with  joy — 
You  sit  apart,  you  do  not  speak  to  him, 
You  come  with  no  attendance,  page  or  maid, 
To  serve  you — does  he  love  you  as  of  old  ? 
For,  call  it  lovers'  quarrels,  yet  I  know        J 
Tho'  men  may  bicker  with  the  things  they  love, 
They  would  not  make  them  laughable  in  all  eyes, 
Not  while  they  loved  them ;  and  your  wretched  dresa, 
A  wretched  insult  on  you,  dumbly  speaks 
Your  story,  that  this  man  loves  you  no  more. 
Your  beauty  is  no  beauty  to  him  now : 
A  common  chance — right  well  I  know  it — pall'd —  •' 
For  I  know  men :  nor  will  you  win  him  back, 
For  the  man's  love  once  gone  never  returns. 
But  here  is  one  who  loves  you  as  of  old ; 
With  more  exceeding  passion  than  of  old : 
Good,  speak  the  word :  my  followers  ring  him  round : 
He  sits  unarm'd :  I  hold  a  finger  up ; 
They  understand:  no;  I  do  not  mean  blood: 
Nor  need  you  look  so  scared  at  what  I  say : 
My  malice  is  no  deeper  than  a  moat, 
No  stronger  than  a  wall:  there  is  the  keep; 
He  shall  not  cross  us  more ;  speak  but  the  word : 
Or  speak  it  not;  but  then  by  Him  that  made  me 
The  one  true  lover  which  you  ever  had, 
I  will  make  use  of  all  the  power  I  have. 
O  pardon  me  !  the  madness  of  that  hour, 
When  first  I  parted  from  you,  moves  me  yet." 

At  this  the  tender  sound  of  his  own  voice 
And  sweet  self-pity,  or  the  fancy  of  it, 
Made  his  eye  moist;  but  Enid  fear'd  his  eyes, 
Moist  as  they  were,  wine-heated  from  the  feast ; 
And  answer'd  with  such  craft  as  women  use, 
Guilty  or  guiltless,  to  stave  off  a  chance 
That  breaks  upon  them  perilously,  and  said : 

"  Earl,  if  you  love  me  as  in  former  years, 
And  do  not  practise  on  me,  come  with  morn, 
And  snatch  me  from  him  as  by  violence; 
Leave  me  to-night:  I  am  weary  to  the  death." 

Low  at  leave-taking,  with  his  brandish'd  plume 
Brushing  his  instep,  bow'd  the  all-amorous  Earl, 
And  the  stout  Prince  bade  him  a  loud  good-night. 
He  moving  homeward  babbled  to  his  men, 
How  Enid  never  loved  a  man  but  him, 
Nor  cared  a  broken  egg-shell  for  her  lord. 

But  Enid  left  alone  with  Prince  Geraint, 
Debating  his  command  of  silence  given, 


EXID. 


And  that  she  now  perforce  must  violate  it, 

Held  commune  with  herself,  and  while  she  held 

He  fell  asleep,  and  Enid  had  no  heart 

To  wake  him,  but  hung  o'er  him,  wholly  pleased 

To  find  him  yet  nnwounded  after  fight, 

And  hear  him  breathing  low  and  equally. 

Anon  she  rose,  and  stepping  lightly,  heap'd 

The  pieces  of  his  armor  in  one  place, 

All  to  be  there  against  a  sudden  need ; 

Then  dozed  awhile  herself,  but  overtoil'd; 

By  that  day's  grief  and  travel,  evermore 

Seem'd  catching  at  a  rootless  thorn,  and  then 

Went  slipping  down  horrible  precipices, 

And  strongly  striking  out  her  iimbs  awoke ; 

Then  thought  she  heard  the  wild  Earl  at  the  door, 

With  all  his  rout  of  random  followers, 

Sound  on  a  dreadful  trumpet,  summoning  her; 

Which  was  the  red  cock  shouting  to  the  light, 

As  the  gray  dawn  stole  o'er  the  dewy  world, 

And  glimmer'd  on  his  armor  in  the  room. 

And  once  again  she  rose  to  look  at  it, 

But  touch'd  it  unawares:  jangling,  the  casque 

Fell,  and  he  started  up  and  stared  at  her. 

Then  breaking  his  command  of  silence  given, 

She  told  him  all  that  Earl  Limours  had  said, 

Except  the  passage  that  he  loved  her  not ; 

Nor  left  untold  the  craft  herself  had  used ; 

But  ended  with  apology  so  sweet, 

Low-spoken,  and  of  so  few  words,  and  seem'd 

So  justified  by-  that  necessity, 

That  tho'  he  thought  "was  it  for  him  she  wept 

In  Devon  f"  he  but  gave  a  wrathful  groan, 

Saying  "your  sweet  faces  make  good  fellows  fools 

And  traitors.    Call  the  host  and  bid  him  bring 

Charger  and  palfrey."    So  she  glided  out 

Among  the  heavy  breathings  of  the  house, 

And  like  a  household  Spirit  at  the  walls 

Beat,  till  she  woke  the  sleepers,  and  return'd : 

Then  tending  her  rough  lord,  tho'  all.  unask'd, 

In  silence,  did  him  service  as  a  squire ; 

Till  issuing  arm'd  he  found  the  host  and  cried, 

"  Thy  reckoning,  friend  ?"  and  ere  he  learnt  it,  "  Take 

Five  horses  and  their  armors;"  and  the  host, 

Suddenly  honest,  answer'd  in  amaze, 

•'My  lord,  I  scarce  have  spent  the  worth  of  one !" 

"  You  will  be  all  the  wealthier,"  said  the  Prince, 

And  then  to  Enid,  "  Forward  1  and  to-day 

I  charge  you,  Enid,  more  especially, 

What  thing  soever  you  may  hear  or  see, 

Or  fancy  (tho'  I  count  it  of  small  use 

To  charge  you),  that  you  speak  not  but  obey." 

And  Enid  answer'd,  "  Yea,  my  lord,  I  know 
Your  wish,  and  would  obey :  but  riding  first, 
I  hear  the  violent  threats  you  do  not  hear, 
I  see  the  danger  which  you  cannot  see ; 
Then  not  to  give  you  warning,  that  seems  hard : 
Almost  beyond  me:  yet  I  would  obey." 

"Yea  so,"  said  he,  "  do  it:  be  not  too  wise; 
Seeing  that  you  are  wedded  to  a  man, 
Not  quite  mismated  with  a  yawning  clown, 
But  one  with  arms  to  guard  his  head  and  yours, 
With  eyes  to  find  you  out  however  far, 
And  ears  to  hear  you  even  in  his  dreams." 

With  that  he  turned  and  looked  as  keenly  at  her 
As  careful  robins  eye  the  delver's  toil : 
And  that  within  her  which  a  wanton  fool, 
Or  hasty  judger,  would  have  called  her  guilt, 
Mads  her  cheek  burn  and  either  eyelid  fall. 
And  Geraint  look'd  and  was  not  satisfied. 

Then  forward  by  a  way  which,  beaten  broad, 
Led  from  the  territory  of  false  Limours 
To  the  waste  earldom  of  another  earl, 
Doorm,  whom  his  shaking  vassals  call'd  the  Bull, 
Went  Enid  with  her  sullen  follower  on. 
Once  she  look'd  back,  and  when  she  saw  him  ride 


More  near  by  many  a  rood  than  yestermorn, 

It  welluigh  made  her  cheerful:  till  Geraiut 

Waving  an  angry  hand  as  who  should  say 

"  You  watch  me,"  saddened  all  her  heart  again. 

But  while  the  sun  yet  beat  a  dewy  blade, 

The  sound  of  many  a  heavily-galloping  hoof 

Smote  on  her  ear,  and  turning  round  she  saw 

Dust,  and  the  points  of  lances  bicker  in  it 

Then  not  to  disobey  her  lord's  behest, 

And  yet  to  give  him  warning,  for  he  rode 

As  if  he  heard  not,  moving  back  she  held 

Her  finger  up,  and  pointed  to  the  dust 

At  which  the  warrior  in  his  obstinacy, 

Because  she  kept  the  letter  of  his  word 

Was  in  a  manner  pleased,  and  turning,  stood. 

And  in  the  moment  after,  wild  Limours, 

Borne  on  a  black  horsef  like  a  thunder-cloud 

Whose  skirts  are  loosen'd  by  the  breaking  storm, 

Half  ridden  off  with  by  the  thing  he  rode, 

And  all  in  passion  uttering  a  dry  shriek, 

Dash'd  on  Geraint,  who  closed  with  him  and  bore 

Down  by  the  length  of  lance  and  arm  beyond 

The  crupper,  and  so  left  him  stuuu'd  or  dead, 

And  overthrew  the  next  that  follow'd  him, 

And  blindly  rush'd  on  all  the  rout  behind. 

But  at  the  flash  and  motion  of  the  man 

They  vanish'd  panic-stricken,  like  a  shoal 

Of  darting  fish,  that  on  a  summer  morn 

Adown  the  crystal  dikes  at  Camelot 

Come  slipping  o'er  their  shadows  on  the  sand, 

But  if  a  man  who  stands  upon  the  brink 

But  lift  a  shining  hand  against  the  sun, 

There  is  not  left  the  twinkle  of  a  fin 

Betwixt  the  cressy  islets  white  in  flower; 

So,  scared  but  at  the  motion  of  the  man, 

Fled  all  the  boon  companions  of  the  Earl, 

And  left  him  lying  in  the  public  way: 

So  vanish  friendships  only  made  in  wine. 

Then  like  a  stormy  sunlight  smiled  Geraint, 
Who  saw  the  chargers  of  the  two  that  fell 
Start  from  their  fallen  lords,  and  wildly  fly, 
Mixt  with  the  flyers.    "Horse  and  maiVhe  said, 
"All  of  one  mind  and  all  right-honest  friends  1 
Not  a  hoof  left ;  and  I  methinks  till  now 
Was  honest— paid  with  horses  and  with  armsj 
I  cannot  steal  or  plunder,  no  nor  beg : 
And  so  what  say  you,  shall  we  strip  him  there 
Your  lover?  has  your  palfrey  heart  enough 
To  bear  his  armor?  shall  we  fast  or  dine? 
No  ?— then  do  you,  being  right  honest,  pray 
That  we  may  meet  the  horsemen  of  Earl  Doorm, 
I  too  would  still  be  honest."    Thus  he  said: 
And  sadly  •gazing  on  her  bridle-reins, 
And  answering  not  one  word,  she  led  the  way. 

But  as  a  man  to  whom  a  dreadful  loss 
Falls  in  a  far  land  and  he  knows  it  not, 
But  coming  back  he  learns  it,  and  the  loss 
So  pains  him  that  he  sickens  nigh  to  death ; 
So  fared  it  with  Geraint,  who  being  prick'd 
In  combat  with  the  follower  of  Limours, 
Bled  underneath  his  armor  secretly, 
And  so  rode  on,  nor  told  his  gentle  wife 
What  ail'd  him,  hardly  knowing  it  himself, 
Till  his  eye  darken'd  and  his  helmet  wagg'd ; 
And  at  a  sudden  swerving  of  the  road, 
Tho'  happily  down  on  a  bank  of  grass, 
The  Prince,  without  a  word,  from  his  horse  felL 

And  Enid  heard  the  clashing  of  his  fall, 
Suddenly  came,  and  at  his  side  all  pale 
Dismounting,  loosed  the  fastenings  of  his  arms, 
Nor  let  her  true  hand  falter,  nor  blue  eye 
Moisten,  till  she  had  lighted  on  his  wound, 
And  tearing  off  her  veil  of  faded  silk 
Had  bared  her  forehead  to  the  blistering  sun, 
And  swathed  the  hurt  that  draiu'd  her  dear  lord's  life. 


ENID. 


161 


Then  after  all  was  done  that  hand  could  do; 
She  rested,  and  her  desolation  came 
Upon  her,  and  she  wept  beside  the  way. 

And  many  past,  but  none  regarded  her, 
For  in  that  realm  of  lawless  turbulence, 
A  woman  weeping  for  her  murder'd  mate 
Was  cared  as  much  for  as  a  summer  shower: 
One  took  him  for  a  victim  of  Earl  Doorm, 
Nor  dared  to  waste  a  perilous  pity  on  him : 
Another  hurrying  past,  a  uiau-at-arms, 
Kode  on  a  mission  to  the  bandit  Earl ; 
Half  whistling  and  half  singing  a  coarse  song, 
He  drove  the  dust  against  her  veilless  eyes : 
Another,  flying  from  the  wrath  of  Doorm 
Before  an  ever-fancied  arrow,  made 
The  long  way  smoke  beneath  him  in  his  fear; 
At  which  her  palfrey  whinnying  lifted  heel, 
And  scour'd  into  the  coppices  and  was  lost, 
While  the  great  charger  stood,  grieved  like  a  man. 

But  at  the  point  of  noon  the  huge  Earl  Doorm, 
Broad-faced  with  under-fringe  of  russet  beard, 
Bound  on  a  foray,  rolling  eyes  of  prey, 
Came  riding  with  a  hundred  lances  up ; 
But  ere  he  came,  like  one  that  hails  a  ship, 
Cried  out  with  a  big  voice,  "What,  is  he  dead?" 
"  No,  no,  not  dead !"  she  answer'd  in  all  haste. 
"Would  some  of  your  kind  people  take  him  up, 
And  bear  him  hence  out  of  this  cruel  sun ; 
Most  sure  am  I,  quite  sure,  he  is  not  dead." 

Then  said  Earl  Doorm:  "Well,  if  he  be  not  dead, 
Why  wail  you  for  him  thus?  you  seem  a  child. 
And  be  he  dead,  I  count  you  for  a  fool : 
Your  wailing  will  not  quicken  him:  dead  or  not, 
You  mar  a  comely  face  with  idiot  tears. 
Yet,  since  the  face  is  comely — some  of  you, 
Here,  take  him  up,  and  bear  him  to  our  hall : 
And  if  he  live,  we  will  have  him  of  our  band ; 
And  if  he  die,  why  earth  has  earth  enough 
To  hide  him.    See  ye  take  the  charger  too, 
A  noble  one." 

He  spake,  and  past  away, 
But  left  two  brawny  spearmen,  who  advanced, 
Each  growling  like  a  dog,  when  his  good  bone 
Seems  to  be  pluck'd  at  by  the  village  boys 
Who  love  to  vex  him  eating,  and  he  fears 
To  lose  his  bone,  and  lays  his  foot  upon  it. 
Gnawing  and  growling;  so  the  ruffians  growl'd, 
Fearing  to  lose,  and  all  for  a  dead  man, 
Their  chance  of  booty  from  the  morning's  raid ; 
Yet  raised  and  laid  him  on  a  litter-bier, 
Such  as  they  brought  upon  their  forays  ont 
For  those  that  might  be  wounded ;  laid  him  on  it 
All  in  the  hollow  of  his  shield,  and  took 
And  bore  him  to  the  naked  hall  of  Doorm, 
(His  gentle  charger  following  him  nnled) 
And  cast  him  and  the  bier  in  which  he  lay 
Down  on  an  oaken  settle  in  the  hall, 
And  then  departed,  hot  in  haste  to  join 
Their  luckier  mates,  but  growling  as  before, 
And  cursing  their  lost  time,  and  the  dead  man, 
And  their  own  Earl,  and  their  own  sonls,  and  her. 
They  might  as  well  have  blest  her:  she  was  deaf 
To  blessing  or  to  cursing  save  from  one. 

So  for  long  hours  sat  Enid  by  her  lord, 
There  in  the  naked  hall,  propping  his  head, 
And  chafing  his  pale  hands,  and  calling  to  him. 
And  at  the  last  he  waken'd  from  his  swoon, 
And  found  his  own  dear  bride  propping  his  head, 
And  chafing  his  faint  hands,  and  calling  to  him ; 
And  felt  the  warm  tears  falling  on  his  face ; 
And  said  to  his  own  heart,  "  She  weeps  for  me ;" 
And  yet  lay  still,  and  feign'd  himself  as  dead, 
That  he  might  prove  her  to  the  uttermost, 
And  say  to  his  own  heart,  "  She  weeps  for  me." 
11 


But  in  the  falling  afternoon  return'd 
The  huge  Earl  Doorm  with  plunder  to  the  hall. 
His  lusty  spearmen  follow'd  him  with  noise: 
Each  hurling  down  a  heap  of  things  that  rang 
Against  the  pavement,  cast  his  lance  aside, 
And  dofi"d  his  helm :  and  then  there  fiutter'd  in, 
Half-bold,  half-frighted,  with  dilated  eyes, 
A  tribe  of  women,  dress'd  in  many  hues, 
And  mingled  with  the  spearmen :  and  Earl  Doorm 
Struck  with  a  knife's  haft  hard  against  the  board. 
And  call'd  for  flesh  and  wine  to  feed  his  spears. 
And  men  brought  in  whole  hogs  and  quarter  beeves, 
And  all  the  hall  was  dim  with  steam  of  flesh: 
And  none  spake  word,  but  all  sat  down  at  once, 
And  ate  with  tumult  in  the  naked  hall, 
Feeding  like  horses  when  yon  hear  them  feed; 
Till  Enid  shrank  far  back  into  herself, 
To  shun  the  wild  ways  of  the  lawless  tribe. 
But  when  Earl  Doorm  had  eaten  all  he  would, 
He  roll'd  his  eyes  about  the  hall,  and  found 
A  damsel  drooping  in  a  corner  of  it. 
Then  he  remember'd  her,  and  how  she  wept ; 
And  out  of  her  there  came  a  power  upon  him. 
And  rising  on  the  sudden  he  said,  "Eat! 
I  never  yet  beheld  a  thing  so  pale. 
God's  curse,  it  makes  me  mad  to  see  you  weep. 
Eat!   Look  yourself.    Good  luck  had  your  good  man, 
For  were  I  dead  who  is  it  would  weep  for  me? 
Sweet  lady,  never  since  I  first  drew  breath, 
Have  I  beheld  a  lily  like  yourself. 
And  so  there  lived  some  color  in  your  cheek, 
There  is  not  one  among  my  gentlewomen 
Were  fit  to  wear  your  slipper  for  a  glove. 
But  listen  to  me,  and  by  me  be  ruled, 
And  I  will  do  the  thing  I  have  not  done, 
For  you  shall  share  my  earldom  with  me,  girl, 
And  we  will  live  like  two  birds  in  one  nest, 
And  I  will  fetch  you  forage  from  all  fields. 
For  I  compel  all  creatures  to  my  will." 

He  spoke:  the  brawny  spearman  let  his  cheeK 
Bulge   with   the    uuswallow'd   piece,   and  turning, 

stared ; 
WThile  some,  whose  souls  the  old  serpent  long  had 

drawn 

Down,  as  the  worm  draws  in  the  wither'd  leaf 
And  makes  it  earth,  hiss'd  each  at  other's  ear 
What  shall  not  be  recorded— women  they, 
Women,  or  what  had  been  those  gracions  things, 
But  now  desired  the  humbling  of  their  best, 
Yea,  would  have  helped  him  to  it;  and  all  at  once 
They  hated  her,  who  took  no  thought  of  them, 
But  answer'd  in  low  voice,  her  meek  head  yet 
Drooping,  "  I  pray  you  of  your  courtesy, 
He  being  as  he  is,  to  let  me  be." 

She  spake  so  low  he  hardly  heard  her  speak, 
But  like  a  mighty  patron,  satisfied 
With  what  himself  had  done  so  graciously, 
Assumed  that  she  had  thanked  him,  adding,  "Yea, 
Eat  and  be  glad,  for  I  account  you  mine." 

She  answer'd  meekly,  "How  should  I  be  glad 
Henceforth  in  all  the  world  at  anything, 
Until  my  lord  arise  and  look  upon  me?" 

Here  the  huge  Earl  cried  out  upon  her  talk, 
As  all  but  empty  heart  and  weariness 
And  sickly  nothing ;  suddenly  seized  on  her, 
And  bare  her  by  main  violence  to  the  board, 
And  thrust  the  dish  before  her,  crying,  "Eat." 

'No,  no,"  said  Enid,  vext,  "I  will  not  eat, 
Till  yonder  man  upon  the  bier  arise, 
And  eat  with  me."    "Drink,  then,"  he   answer's. 

"Here!" 

(And  flll'd  a  horn  with  wine  and  held  it  to  her), 
Lo !  I.  myself,  when  flush'd  with  fight,  or  hot, 


162 


ENID. 


God's  curse,  with  anger— often  I  myself,  |  Rose  when  they  saw  the  dead  man  rise,  and  fled 

Before  I  well  have  drunken,  scarce  cau  eat:  |  Yelling  as  from  a  spectre,  aud  the  two 

Drink  therefore,  and  the  wine  will  change  your  will."    Were  left  alone  together,  and  he  said: 


"Not  so,"  she  cried,  "by  Heaven,  I  will  not  drink, 
Till  my  dear  lord  arise  aud  bid  me  do  it, 
And  drink  with  me ;  and  if  he  rise  no  more, 
I  will  not  look  at  wine  until  I  die." 

At  this  he  tnrn'd  all  red  and  paced  his  hall, 
Now  gnaw'd  his  under,  now  his  upper  lip, 
And  coming  up  close  to  her,  said  at  last : 
"  Girl,  for  I  see  you  scorn  my  courtesies, 
Take  warning :  yonder  man  is  surely  dead ; 
Aud  I  compel  all  creatures  to  my  will. 
Not  eat  nor  drink  ?    And  wherefore  wail  for  one, 
Who  put  your  beauty  to  this  flout  and  scorn 
By  dressing  it  in  rags?    Amazed  am  I, 
Beholding  how  you  butt  against  my  wish, 
That  I  forbear  yon  thus :  cross  me  no  more. 
At  least  put  off  to  please  me  this  poor  gown, 
This  silken  rag,  this  beggar-woman's  weed : 
I  love  that  beauty  should  go  beautifully: 
For  see  you  not  my  gentlewomen  here, 
How  gay,  how  suited  to  the  house  of  one, 
Who  loves  that  beauty  should  go  beautifully ! 
Rise  therefore;  robe  yourself  in  this:  obey." 

He  spoke,  and  one  among  his  gentlewomen 
Display'd  a  splendid  silk  of  foreign  loom, 
Where  like  a  shoaling  sea  the  lovely  blue 
Play'd  into  green,  and  thicker  down  the  front 
With  jewels  than  the  sward  with  drops  of  dew, 
When  all  night  long  a  cloud  clings  to  the  hill, 
And  with  the  dawn  ascending  lets  the  day 
Strike  where  it  clung :  so  thickly  shone  the  gems. 

But  Enid  answer'd,  harder  to  be  moved 
Than  hardest  tyvants  in  their  day  of  power, 
With  life-long  injuries  burning  unavenged, 
And  now  their  hour  has  come ;  and  Enid  said : 

"  In  this  poor  gown  my  dear  lord  found  me  first, 
And  loved  me  serving  in  my  father's  hall : 
In  this  poor  gown  I  rode  with  him  to  court, 
And  there  the  Queen  array'd  me  like  the  sun: 
In  this  poor  gown  he  bade  me  clothe  myself, 
When  now  we  rode  upon  this  fatal  quest 
Of  honor,  where  no  honor  can  be  gain'd : 
And  this  poor  gown  I  will  not  cast  aside 
Until  himself  arise  a  living  man, 
And  bid  me  cast  it.    I  have  griefs  enough : 
Pray  you  be  gentle,  pray  you  let  me  be: 
I  never  loved, can  never  love  but  him: 
Yea,  God,  I  pray  you  of  your  gentleness, 
He  being  as  he  is,  to  let  me  be." 

Then  strode  the  brute  Earl  np  and  down  his  hall, 
And  took  his  russet  beard  between  his  teeth ; 
Last,  coming  up  quite  close,  aud  in  his  mood 
Crying,  "I  count  it.  of  no  more  avail, 
Dame,  to  be  gentle  than  ungentle  with  you :    • 
Take  my  salute,"  unknightly  with  flat  hand, 
However  lightly,  smote  her  on  the  cheek. 
Then  Enid,  in  her  utter  helplessness, 
And  since  she  thought,  "  he  had  not  dared  to  do  it, 
Except  he  surely  knew  my  lord  was  dead," 
Sent  forth  a  sudden  sharp  and  bitter  cry, 
As  of  a  wild  thing  taken  in  the  trap, 
Which  sees  the  trapper  coming  thro'  the  wood. 

This  heard  Geraint,  and  grasping  at  his  sword, 
(It  lay  beside  him  in  the  hollow  shield,) 
Made  but  a  single  bound,  and  with  a  sweep  of  it 
Shore  thro'  the  swarthy  neck,  and  like  a  ball 
The  russet-bearded  head  roll'd  on  the  floor. 
So  died  Earl  Doorm  by  him  he  counted  dead. 
And  all  the  men  and  women  in  the  hall 


"  Enid,  I  have  used  you  worse  than  that  dead  man  ,• 
Done  you  more  wrong :  we  both  have  undergone 
That  trouble  which  has  left  me  thrice  your  own : 
Henceforward  I  will  rather  die  than  doubt. 
And  here  I  lay  this  penance  on  myself, 
Not,  tho'  mine  own  ears  heard  you  yestermoru — 
You  thought  me  sleeping,  but  I  heard  you  say, 
I  heard  you  say,  that  you  were  no  true  wife: 
I  swear  I  will  not  ask  your  meaning  in  it: 
I  do  believe  yourself  against  yourself, 
And  will  henceforward  rather  die  than  doubt." 

And  Enid  could  not  say  one  tender  word, 
She  felt  so  blunt  aud  stupid  at  the  heart: 
She  only  pray'd  him,  "  Fly,  they  will  return 
And  slay  you ;  fly,  your  charger  is  without, 
My  palfrey  lost."    "Then,  Enid,  shall  you  ride 
Behind  me."    "Yea,"  said  Enid,  "let  us  go." 
And  moving  out  they  found  the  stately  horse, 
Who  now  no  more  a  vassal  to  the  thief, 
But  free  to  stretch  his  limbs  in  lawful  fight, 
Neigh'd  with  all  gladness  as  they  came,  and  stoop'd 
With  a  low  whinny  toward  the  pair :  and  she 
Kiss'd  the  white  star  upon  his  noble  front, 
Glad  also ;  then  Geraint  upon  the  horse 
Mounted,  and  reach'd  a  hand,  and  on  his  foot 
She  set  her  own  aud  climb'd ;  he  turn'd  his  face 
And  kiss'd  her  climbing,  and  she  cast  her  arms 
About  him,  and  at  once  they  rode  away. 

And  never  yet,  since  high  in  Paradise 
O'er  the  four  rivers  the  first  roses  blew, 
Came  purer  pleasure  unto  mortal  kind, 
Than  lived  thro'  her  who  in  that  perilous  hour 
Put  hand  to  hand  beneath  her  husband's  heart, 
Aud  felt  him  hers  again :  she  aid  not  weep, 
But  o'er  her  meek  eyes  came  a  happy  mist 
Like  that  which  kept  the  heart  of  Eden  green 
Before  the  useful  trouble  of  the  rain : 
Yet  not  so  misty  were  her  meek  blue  eyes 
As  not  to  see  before  them  on  the  path, 
Right  in  the  gateway  of  the  bandit  bold, 
A  knight  of  Arthur's  court,  who  laid  his  lance 
In  rest,  and  made  as  if  to  fall  upon  him. 
Then,  fearing  for  his  hurt  and  loss  of  blood, 
She,  with  her  mind  all  full  of  what  had  chanced, 
Shriek'd  to  the  stranger,  "Slay  not  a  dead  man  !" 
"The  voice  of  Enid,"  said  the  knight:  but  she, 
Beholding  it  was  Edyrn  son  of  Nudd, 
Was  moved  so  much  the  more,  and  shriek'd  again, 
"  O  cousin,  slay  not  him  who  gave  you  life." 
And  Edyrn  moving  frankly  forward  spake: 
"  My  lord  Geraint,  I  greet  you  with  all  love ; 
I  took  you  for  a  bandit  knight  of  Doorm ; 
And  fear  not,  Enid,  I  should  fall  upon  him, 
Who  love  you,  Prince,  with  something  of  the  love 
Wherewith  we  love  the  Heaven  that  chastens  us. 
For  once,  when  I  was  up  so  high  in  pride 
That  I  was  half  way  down  the  slope  to  Hell, 
By  overthrowing  me  yon  threw  me  higher. 
Now,  made  a  knight  of  Arthur's  Table  Round, 
And  since  I  knew  this  Earl,  when  I  myself 
Was  half  a  bandit  in  my  lawless  hour, 
I  come  the*  mouthpiece.. of  our  Kincr  to  Doorm 
(The  King  is"  close  behind Tne)  bidding  him 
Disband  himseTf,  and  _s.oa*ter  all  his  powers, 
Submit,  and  hear  the  "judgment  of  the  King." 

"He  hears  the  judgment. of  the  King  of  Kings," 
Cried  the  wan  Prince :  "  and  lo  the  powers  of  Doorm 
Are  scatter'd,"  and  he  pointed  to  the  field 
Where,  huddled  here  and  there  on  mound  and  knoll, 
Were  men  and  women  staring  and  aghast, 
While  some  yet  fled :  and  then  he  plainlier  told1 


ENID. 


"  He  turned  hia  face, 

And  kiss'd  her  climbing,  and  6he  cast  her  arms 
About  him,  and  at  once  they  rode  away." 


How  the  huge  Earl  lay  slain  within  his  hall. 
But  when  the  knight  besought  him,  "Follow  me, 
Prince,  to  the  camp,  and  in  the  King's  own  ear 
Speak  what  has  chanced ;  yon  surely  have  endured 
Strange  Shances  here  alone ;"  that  other  flush'd, 
And  hung  his  head,  and  halted  in  reply, 
Fearing  the  mild  face  of  the  blameless  King, 
And  after  madness  acted  question  ask'd : 
Till  Edyrn  crying,  "  If.you  will  not  go 
To  Arthur,  then  will  Arthur  come  to  yon," 
"Enough,"  he  said,  "I  follow,"  and  they  went. 
But  Enid  in  their  going  had  two  fears, 
One  from  the  bandit  scatter'd  in  the  field, 
And  one  from  Edyrn.    Every  now  and  then, 
When  Edyrn  rein'd  his  charger  at  her  side, 
She  shrank  a  little.    In  a  hollow  land, 
From  which  old  fire*  have  broken,  men  may  fear 
Fresh  fire  and  ruin.    He,  perceiving,  .said : 

"Fair  and  dear  cousin,  you  that  most  had  cause 
To  fear  me,  fear  no  longer,  I  am  changed. 
Yourself  were  first  the  blameless  cause  to  make 


My  nature's  prideful  sparkle  in  the  blood 

Break  into  furious  flame ;  being  repulsed 

By  Yniol  and  yourself,  I  schemed  and  wrought 

Until  I  overturn'd  him ;  then  set  np 

(With  one  main  purpose  ever  at  my  heart) 

My  haughty  jousts,  and  took  a  paramour; 

Did  her  mock-honor  as  the  fairest  fair, 

And,  toppling  over  all  antagonism, 

So  wax'd  in  pride,  that  I  believed  myself 

Unconquerable,  for  I  was  welluigh  mad : 

And,  but  for  my  main  purpose  in  these  jousts, 

I  should  have  slain  your  father,  seized  yourself. 

I  lived  in  hope  that  some  time  you  would  come 

To  these  my  lists  with  him  whom  best  you  loved : 

And  there,  poor  cousin,  with  your  meek  blue  eyes. 

The  truest  eyes  that  ever  answer'd  heaven, 

Behold  me  overturn  and  trample  on  him. 

Then,  had  you  cried,  or  knelt,  or  pray'd  to  me, 

I  should  not  less  have  killed  him.     Aad  you  came, — 

But  once  you  came, — and  with  your  own  true  eyes 

Beheld  the  man  you  loved  (I  speak  as  one 

Speaks  of  a  service  done  him)  overthrow 


164 


VIVIEN. 


My  proud  self,  and  my  purpose  three  years  old, 

And  set  his  foot  upon  me,  and  give  me  life. 

There  was  I  broken  down ;  there  was  I  saved : 

Tho'  thence  I  rode  all-shamed,  hating  the  life 

He  gave  me,  meaning  to  be  rid  of  it. 

And  all  the  penance  the  Queen  laid  upon  me 

Was  but  to  rest  awhile  within  her  court  ; 

Where  first  as  sullen  as  a  beast  new-caged, 

And  waiting  to  be  treated  like  a  wolf, 

Because  I  knew  my  deeds  were  known,  I  found, 

Instead  of  scornful  pity  or  pure  scorn, 

Such  fine  reserve  and  noble  reticence, 

Manners  so  kind,  yet  stately,  such  a  grace 

Of  tenderest  courtesy,  that  I  began 

To  glance  behind  me  at  my  former  life, 

And  find  that  it  had  been  the  wolfs  indeed: 

And  oft  I  talk'd  with  Dubric,  the  high  saiut, 

Who,  with  mild  heat  of  holy  oratory, 

Subdued  me  somewhat  to  that  gentleness, 

Which,  when  it  weds  with  manhood,  makes  a  man. 

And  you  were  often  there  about  the  Qneen, 

But  saw  me  not,  or  marked  not  if  you  saw ; 

Nor  did  I  care  or  dare  to  speak  with  you. 

But  kept  myself  aloof  till  I  was  changed ; 

And  fear  not,  cousin ;  I  am  changed  indeed." 

He  spoke,  and  Enid  easily  believed, 
Like  simple  noble  natures,  credulous 
Of  what  they  long  for,  good  in  friend  or  foe, 
There  most  in  those  who  most  have  done  them  ill. 
And  when  they  reach'd  the  camp  the  king  himself 
Advanced  to  greet  them,  and  beholding  her 
Tho'  pale,  yet  happy,  ask'd  her  not  a  word, 
But  went  apart  with  Edyrn,  whom  he  held 
In  converse  for  a  little,  and  retnrn'd, 
And,  gravely  smiling,  lifted  her  from  horse, 
And  kiss'd  her  with  all  pureness,  brother-like, 
And  show'd  an  empty  tent  allotted  her, 
And  glancing  for  a  minute,  till  he  saw  her 
Pass  into  it,  turn'd  to  the  Prince,  and  said : 

"  Prince,  when  of  late  yon  pray'd  me  for  my  leave 
To  move  to  your  own,  land,  and  there  defend 
Your  marches,  I  was  prick'd  with  some  reproof, 
As  one  that  let  foul  wrong  stagnate  and  be, 
By  having  look'd  too  much  thro'  alien  eyes, 
And  wrought  too  long  with  delegated  hands, 
Not  used  mine  own :  but  now  behold  me  come 
To  cleanse  this  common  sewer  of  all  my  realm, 
With  Edyrn  and  with  others :  have  yon  look'd 
At  Edyrn?  have  you  seen  how  nobly  changed? 
This  work  of  his  is  great  and  wonderful. 
His  very  face  with  change  of  heart  is  changed. 
The  world  will  not  believe  a  man  repents : 
And  this  wise  world  of  ours  is  mainly  right 
Full  seldom  does  a  man  repent,  or  use 
Both  grace  and  will  to  pick  the  vicious  quitch 
Of  blood  and  custom  wholly  out  of  him, 
And  make  all  clean,  and  plant  himself  afresh. 
Edyrn  has  done  it,  weeding  all  his  heart 
As  I  will  weed  this  land  before  I  go.  • 
I,  therefore,  made  him  of  our  Table  Round, 
Not  rashly,  but  have  proved  him  every  way 
One  of  our  noblest,  our  most  valorous, 
Sanest  and  most  obedient :  and  indeed 
This  work  of  Edyrn  wrought  upon  himself 
After  a  life  of  violence,  seems  to  me 
A  thousand-fold  more  great  and  wonderful 
Than  if  some  knight  of  mine,  risking  his  life, 
My  subject  with  my  subjects  under  him, 
Should  make  an  onslaught  single  on  a  realm 
Of  robbers,  tho'  he  slew  them  one  by  one, 
And  were  himself  nigh  wounded  to  the  death." 

So  spake  the  King ;  low  bow'd  the  Prince,  and  felt 
His  work  was  neither  great  nor  wonderful, 
And  past  to  Enid's  tent;  and  thither  came 
The  King's  own  leech  to  look  into  his  hurt ; 


And  Enid  tended  on  him  there ;  and  there 
Her  constant  motion  round  him,  and  the  breath 
Of  her  sweet  tendance  hovering  over  him, 
Fill'd  all  the  genial  courses  of  his  blood 
With  deeper  and  with  ever  deeper  love, 
As  the  south-west  that  blowing  Bala  lake 
Fills  all  the  sacred  Dee.    So  past  the  days. 

But  while  Geraint  lay  healing  of  his  hurt, 
The  blameless  King  went  forth  and  cast  his  eyes 
On  whom  his  father  Uther  left  in  charge 
Long  since,  to  guard  the  justice  of  the  King: 
He  look'd  and  found  them  wanting ;  and  as  now 
Men  weed  the  white  horse  on  the  Berkshire  hill* 
To  keep  him  bright  and  clean  as  heretofore, 
He  rooted  out  the  slothful  officer 
Or  guilty,  which  for  bribe  had  wink'd  at  wrong, 
And  in  their  chairs  get  up  a  stronger  race 
With  hearts  and  hands,  aud  sent  a  thousand  men 
To  till  the  wastes,  and  moving  everywhere 
Clear'd  the  dark  places  and  let  in  the  law, 
And  broke  the  bandit  holds  and  cleansed  the  land. 

Then,  when  Geraint  was  whole  again,  they  past 
With  Arthur  to  Caerleon  upon  Usk. 
There  the  great  Queen  once  more  embraced  her  friend, 
And  clothed  her  in  apparel  like  the  day. 
And  tho'  Geraint  could  never  take  again 
That  comfort  from  their  converse  which  he  took 
Before  the  Queen's  fair  name  was  breathed  upon, 
He  rested  well  content  that  all  was  well. 
Thence  after  tarrying  for  a  space  they  rode, 
And  fifty  knights  rode  with  them  to  the  shores 
Of  Severn,  and  they  past  to  their  own  laud. 
And  there  he  kept  the  justice  of  the  King 
So  vigorously  yet  mildly,  that  all  hearts 
Applauded,  and  the  spiteful  whisper  died: 
Aud  being  ever  foremost  in  the  chase, 
Aud  victor  at  the  tilt  and  tournament, 
They  call'd  him  the  great  Prince  and  man  of  men. 
But  Enid,  whom  her  ladies  loved  to  call 
Enid  the  Fair,  a  grateful  people  named 
Euid  the  Good;  and  in  their  halls  arose 
The  cry  of  children,  Enids  and  Geraints 
Of  times  to  be ;  nor  did  he  doubt  her  more 
But  rested  in  her  fealty,  till  he  crown'd 
A  happy  life  with  a  fair  death,  and  fell 
Against  the  heathen  of  the  Northern  Sea 
In  battle,  fighting  for  the  blameless  King. 


VIVIEN. 

A  STOEM  was  coming,  but  the  winds  were  still, 
And  in  the  wild  woods  of  Broceliande, 
Before  an  oak,  so  hollow  huge  aud  old 
It  look'd  a  tower  of  ruin'd  masonwork, 
At  Merlin's  feet  the  wily  Vivien  lay. 

The  wily  Vivien  stole  from  Arthur's  court: 
She  hated  all  the  knights,  and  heard  in  thought 
Their  lavish  comment  when  her  name  was  named. 
For  once,  when  Arthur  walking  all  alone, 
Vext  at  a  rumor  rife  about  the  Queen, 
Had  met  her,  Vivien,  being  greeted  fair, 
Would  fain  have  wrought  upon  his  cloudy  mood 
With  reverent  eyes  mock-loyal,  shaken  voice, 
And  flutter'd  adoration,  and  at  last 
With  dark  sweet  hints  of  some  who  prized  him  more 
Than  who  should  prize  him  most;  at  which  the  King 
Had  gazed  upon  her  blankly  and  gone  by : 
But  one  had  watch'd,  and  had^iot  held  his  peace: 
It  made  the  laughter  of  an  afternoon 
That  Vivien  should  attempt  the  blameless  King. 
And  after  that,  she  set  herself  to  gain 
Slim,  the  most  famous  man  of  all  those  times, 


VIVIEN. 


165 


Merlin,  who  knew  the  range  of  all  their  arts, 
Had  built  the  King  his  havens,  ships,  and  halls, 
Was  also  Bard,  and  knew  the  starry  heavens; 
The  people  called  him  Wizard;  whom  at  first 
She  play'd  about  with  slight  and  sprightly  talk, 
And  vivid  smiles,  and  faiiitly-venom'd  points 
Of  slander,  glancing  here  and  grazing  there ; 
And  yielding  to  his  kindlier  moods,  the  Seer 
Would  watch  her  at  her  petulance,  and  play, 
Ev'n  when  they  seem'd  unlovable,  and  laugh 
As  those  that  watch  a  kitten ;  thus  he  grew 
Tolerant  of  what  he  half  disdaiu'd,  and  she, 
Perceiving  that  she  was  but  half  disdaiu'd, 
Began  to  break  her  sports  with  graver  fits, 
Turn  red  or  pale,  would  often  when  they  met 
Sigh  fully,  or  all-silent  gaze  upon  him 
With  such  a  fixt  devotion,  that  the  old  man, 
Tho'  doubtful,  felt  the  flattery,  and  at  times 
Would  flatter  his  own  wish  in  age  for  love, 
And  half  believe  her  true :  for  thus  at  times 
He  waver'd ;  but  that  other  clung  to  him, 
Fixt  in  her  will,  and  so  the  seasons  went. 
Then  fell  upon  him  a  great  melancholy; 
And  leaving  Arthur's  court  he  gain'd  the  beach; 
There  found  a  little  boat,  and  slept  into  it ; 
And  Vivien  follow'd,  but  he  mark'd  her  not. 
She  took  the  helm  and  he  the  sail ;  the  boat 
Drave  with  a  sudden  wind  across  the  deeps, 
And  touching  Breton  sands  they  disembark'd. 
And  then  she  follow'd  Merlin  all  the  way, 
Ev'n  to  the  wild  woods  of  Broceliande. 
For  Merlin  ouce  had  told  her  of  a  charm, 
The  which  if  any  wrought  on  any  one 
With  woven  paces  and  with  waving  arms, 
The  man  so  wrought  on  ever  seem'd  to  lie 
Closed  in  the  four  walls  of  a  hollow  tower, 
From  which  was  no  escape  forevermore; 
And  none  could  find  that  man  forevermore, 
Nor  could  he  see  but  him  who  wrought  the  charm 
Coming  and  going,  and  he  lay  as  dead 
And  lost  to  life  and  use  and  name  and  fame. 
And  Vivien  ever  sought  to  work  the  charm 
Upon  the  great  Enchanter  of  the  Time, 
As  fancying  that  her  glory  would  be  great 
According  to  his  greatness  whom  she  quench'd. 

There  lay  she  all  her  length  and  kiss'd  his  feet, 
As  if  in  deepest  reverence  and  in  love. 
A  twist  of  gold  was  round  her  hair ;  a  robe 
Of  samite  without  price,  that  more  exprest 
Than  hid  her,  clung  about  her  lissome  limbs, 
In  color  like  the  satin-shining  palm 
On  sallows  in  the  windy  gleams  of  March : 
Aud  while  she  kiss'd  them,  crying,  "Trample  me, 
Dear  feet,  that  I  have  follow'd  thro'  the  world, 
And  I  will  pay  you  worship ;  tread  me  down 
And  I  will  kiss  you  for  it;"  he  was  mute: 
So  dark  a  forethought  roll'd  about  his  brain, 
As  on  a  dull  day  in  an  Ocean  cave 
The  blind  wave  feeling  round  his  long  sea-hall 
In  silence:  wherefore,  when  she  lifted  up 
A  face  of  sad  appeal,  and  spake  and  said, 
"O  Merlin,  do  you  love  me?"  and  again, 
"O  Merlin,  do  you  love  me?"  and  once  more, 
"Great  Master,  do  you  love  me?"  he  was  mute. 
And  lissome  Vivien,  holding  by  his  heel, 
Writhed  toward  him,  slided  up  his  knee  and  sat, 
Behind  his  ankle  twined  her  hollow  feet 
Together,  curved  an  arm  about  his  neck, 
Clung  like  a  snake ;  and  letting  her  left  hand 
Droop  from  his  mighty  shoulder  as  a  leaf, 
Made  with  her  right  a  comb  of  pearl  to  part 
The  lists  of  such  a  beard  as  youth  gone  out 
Had  left  in  ashes:  then  he  spoke  and  said, 
Not  looking  at  her,  "Who  are  wise  in  love 
Love  most,  say  least,"  and  Vivien  answer'd  quick, 
"  I  saw  the  little  elf-god  eyeless  once 
In  Arthur's  arras  hall  at  Camelot: 


But  neither  eyes  nor  tongue, — O  stupid  child! 

Yet  you  are  wise  who  say  it;  let  me  think 

Silence  is  wisdom :  I  am  silent  then 

And  ask  no  kiss;"  then  adding  all  at  once, 

"And  lo,  I  clothe  myself  with  wisdom,"  drew 

The  vast  and  shaggy  mantle  of  his  beard 

Across  her  neck  and  bosom  to  her  knee, 

And  call'd  herself  a  gilded  summer  fly 

Caught  in  a  great  old  tyrant  spider's  web, 

Who  meant  to  eat  her  up  in  that  wild  wood 

Without  one  word.    So  Vivien  call'd  herself, 

But  rather  seem'd  a  lovely  baleful  star 

Veil'd  in  gray  vapor;  till  he  sadly  smiled: 

"To  what  request  for  what  strange  boon,"  he  said, 

"Are  these  your  pretty  tricks  and  fooleries, 

0  Vivien,  the  preamble  ?  yet  my  thanks, 
For  these  have  broken  up  my  melancholy." 

And  Vivien  answer'd  smiling  saucily, 

"What,  O  my  Master,  have  you  found  your  voice? 

1  bid  the  stranger  welcome.    Thanks  at  last ! 
But  yesterday  you  never  open'd  lip, 
Except  indeed  to  drink:  no  cup  had  we: 

In  mine  own  lady  palms  I  cull'd  the  spring 
That  gather'd  trickling  dropwise  from  the  cleft, 
And  made  a  pretty  cup  of  both  my  hands 
And  offer'd  you  it  kneeling:  then  you  drank 
And  knew  no  more,  nor  gave  me  one  poor  word  ; 
O  no  more  thanks  than  might  a  goat  have  given 
With  no  more  sign  of  reverence  than  a  beard. 
And  when  we  halted  at  that  other  well, 
And  I  was  faint  to  swooning,  and  you  lay 
Foot-gilt  with  all  the  blossom-dust  of  those 
Deep  meadows  we  had  traversed,  did  you  know 
That  Vivien  bathed  your  feet  before  her  own? 
And  yet  no  thanks :  and  all  thro'  this  wild  wood 
And  all  this  morning  when  I  fondled  you: 
Boon,  yes,  there  was  a  boon,  one  not  so  strange- 
How  had  I  wrong'd  you?  surely  you  are  wise, 
But  such  a  silence  is  more  wise  than  kind." 

And  Merlin  lock'd  his  hand  in  hers  and  said: 
"O  did  you  never  lie  upon  the  shore, 
And  watch  the  cnrl'd  white  of  the  coming  wave 
Glass'd  in  the  slippery  sand  before  it  breaks? 
Ev'n  such  a  wave,  but  not  so  pleasurable, 
Dark  in  the  glass  of  some  presageful  mood, 
Had  I  for  three  days  seen,  ready  to  fall. 
And  then  I  rose  and  fled  from  Arthur's  court 
To  break  the  mood.    You  follow'd  me  uuask'd ; 
And  when  I  look'd,  and  saw  you  following  still, 
My  mind  involved  yourself  the  nearest  thing 
In  that  mind-mist;  for  shall  I  tell  you  truth? 
You  seem'd  that  wave  about  to  break  upon  me 
And  sweep  me  from  my  hold  upon  the  world, 
My  use  and  name  and  fame.    Your  pardon,  child. 
Your  pretty  sports  have  brighten'd  all  again. 
And  ask  your  boon,  for  boon  I  owe  you  thrice, 
Once  for  wrong  done  you  by  confusion,  next 
For  thanks  it  seems  till  now  neglected,  last 
For  these  your  dainty  gambols:  wherefore  ask: 
And  take  this  boon  so  strange  and  not  so  strange.1'' 

And  Vivien  answer'd,  smiling  mournfully: 
"O  not  so  strange  as  my  long  asking  it, 
Nor  yet  so  strange  as  yon  yourself  are  strange, 
Nor  half  so  strange  as  that  dark  mood  of  yours. 
I  ever  fear'd  you  were  not  wholly  mine; 
And  see,  yourself  have  own'd  you  did  me  wrong. 
The  people  call  you  prophet :  let  it  be : 
But  not  of  those  that  can  expound  themselves. 
Take  Vivien  for  expounder;  she  will  call 
That  three-days-long  presageful  gloom  of  yours 
No  presage,  but  the  same  mistrustful  mood 
That  makes  you  seem  less  noble  than  yourself, 
Whenever  I  have  ask'd  this  very  boon, 
Now  ask'd  again ;  for  see  you  not,  dear  love, 
That  such  a  mood  as  that,  which  lately  gloom'd 


166 


VIVIEN. 


Your  fancy  when  you  saw  me  following  you, 

Must  make  me  fear  still  more  you  are  not  mine, 

Must  make  me  yearn  still  more  to  prove  you  mine, 

And  make  me  wish  still  more  to  learn  this  charm 

Of  woven  paces  and  of  waving  hands, 

As  proof  of  trust    O  Merlin,  teach  it  me. 

The  charm  so  taught  will  charm  us  both  to  rest. 

For,  grant  me  some  slight  power  upon  your  fate, 

I.  feeling  that  you  felt  me  worthy  trust, 

Should  rest  and  let  you  rest,  knowing  you  mine, 

And  therefore  be  as  great  as  you  are  named, 

Not  muffled  round  with  selfish  reticence. 

How  hard  you  look  and  how  denyingly ! 

O,  if  yon  think  this  wickedness  in  me, 

That  "l  should  prove  it  on  you  unawares, 

To  make  you  lose  your  use  and  name  and  fame, 

That  makes  me  most  indignant ;  then  our  bond 

Had  best  be  loosed  forever:  but  think  or  not, 

By  Heaven  that  hears  I  tell  you  the  clean  truth, 

As  clean  as  blood  of  babes,  as  white  as  milk : 

0  Merlin,  may  this  earth,  if  ever  I, 

If  these  unwitty  wandering  wits  of  mine, 
Ev'n  in  the  jumbled  rubbish  of  a  dream, 
Have  tript  on  such  conjectural  treachery — 
May  this  hard  earth  cleave  to  the  Nadir  hell 
Down,  down,  and  close  again,  and  nip  me  flat, 
If  I  be  such  a  traitress.    Yield  my  boon, 
Till  which  I  scarce  can  yield  you  all  I  am ; 
And  grant  my  re-reiterated  wish, 
The  great  proof  of  your  love :  because  I  think, 
However  wise,  you  hardly  know  me  yet." 

And  Merlin  loosed  his  hand  from  hers  and  said : 
"I  never  was  less  wise,  however  wise, 
Too  curious  Vivien,  tho'  you  talk  of  trust, 
Than  when  I  told  you  first  of  such  a  charm. 
Yea,  if  you  talk  of  trust  I  tell  you  this, 
Too  much  I  trusted,  when  I  told  you  that, 
And  stirr'd  this  vice  in  you  which  ruin'd  man 
Thro'  woman  the  first  hour;  for  howsoe'er 
In  children  a  great  curiousuess  be  well, 
Who  have  to  learn  themselves  and  all  the  world, 
In  you,  that  are  no  child,  for  still  I  find 
Your  face  is  practised,  when  I  spell  the  lines, 

1  call  it,— well,  I  will  not  call  it  vice : 

But  since  yon  name  yourself  the  summer  fly, 
I  well  could  wish  a  cobweb  for  the  gnat, 
That  settles,  beaten  back,  and  beaten  back 
Settles,  till  one  could  yield  for  weariness: 
But  since  I  will  not  yield  to  give  you  power 
Upon  my  life  and  use  and  name  and  fame, 
Why  will  you  never  ask  some  other  boon? 
Yea,  by  God's  rood,  I  trusted  you  too  much." 

And  Vivien,  like  the  tenderest-hearted  maid 
That  ever  bided  tryst  at  village  stile, 
Made  answer,  either  eyelid  wet  with  tears. 
"  Nay,  master,  be  not  wrathful  with  your  maid ; 
Caress  her :  let  her  feel  herself  forgiven 
Who  feels  no  heart  to  ask  another  boon. 
I  think  you  hardly  know  the  tender  rhyme 
Of  'trust  me  not  at  all  or  all  in  all.' 
I  heard  the  great  Sir  Lancelot  sing  it  once, 
And  it  shall  answer  for  me.    Listen  to  it. 

'  In  Love,  if  Love  be  Love,  il  Love  be  ours, 
Faith  and  nnfaith  can  ne'er  be  equal  powers: 
Unfaith  in  aught  is  want  of  faith  in  all. 

'It  is  the  little  rift  within  the  lute, 
That  by  and  by  will  make  the  music  mute, 
And  ever  widening  slowly  silence  all. 

'The  little  rift  within  the  lover's  lute, 
Or  little  pitted  speck  in  garner'd  fruit, 
That  rotting  inward  slowly  moulders  all. 


'It  is  not  worth  the  keeping:  let  it  go: 
But  shall  it?  answer,  darling,  answer,  no. 
And  trust  me  not  at  all  or  all  in  all.' 

0  master,  do  you  love  my  tender  rhyme  ?"* 

And  Merlin  look'd  and  half  believed  her  true, 
So  lender  was  her  voice,  so  fair  her  face, 
So  sweetly  gleam'd  her  eyes  behind  her  tears 
Like  sunlight  on  a  plain  behind  a  shower : 
And  yet  he  answer'd  half  indignantly : 

"Far  other  was  the  song  that  once  I  heard 
By  this  huge  oak,  sung  nearly  where  we  sit: 
For  here  we  met,  some  ten  or  twelve  of  us, 
To  chase  a  creature  that  was  current  then 
In  these  wild  woods,  the  hart  with  golden  horns. 
It  was  the  time  when  first  the  question  rose 
About  the  founding  of  a  Table  Round, 
That  was  to  be,  for  love  of  God  and  men 
And  noble  deeds,  the  flower  of  all  the  world. 
And  each  incited  each  to  noble  deeds. 
And  while  we  waited,  one,  the  youngest  of  us, 
We  could  not  keep  him  silent,  out  he  flash'd, 
And  into  such  a  song,  such  fire  for  fame, 
Such  trumpet-blowings  in  it,  coming  down 
To  such  a  stern  and  iron-clashing  close, 
Thaf  when  he  stopt  we  long'd  to  hurl  together, 
And  should  have  done  it ;  but  the  beauteous  beast 
Scared  by  the  noise  upstarted  at  our  feet, 
And  like  a  silver  shadow  slipt  away 
Thro'  the  dim  land;  and  all  day  long  we  rode 
Thro'  the  dim  land  against  the  rushing  wind, 
That  glorious  roundel  echoing  in  our  ears, 
And  chased  the  flashes  of  his  golden  horua 
Until  they  vanish'd  by  the  fairy  well 
That  laughs  at  iron— as  our  warriors  did— 
Where  children  cast  their  pins  and  nails,  and  cry, 
"Laugh  little  well,"  but  touch  it  with  a  sword, 
It  buzzes  wildly  round  the  point;  and  there 
We  lost  him:  such  a  noble  song  was  that. 
But,  Vivien,  when  yon  sang  me  that  sweet  rhyme, 

1  felt  as  tho'  you  knew  this  cursed  charm, 
Were  proving  it  on  me,  and  that  I  lay 

And  felt  them  slowly  ebbing,  name  and  fame." 

And  Vivien  answer'd.  smiling  mournfully; 
"O  mine  have  ebb'd  away  forevermore, 
And  all  thro'  following  you  to  this  wild  wood, 
Because  I  saw  you  sad,  to  comfort  you. 
Lo  now,  what  hearts  have  men  !  they  never  mount 
As  high  as  woman  in  her  selfless  mood. 
And  touching  fame,  howe'er  you  scorn  my  pong 
Take  one  verse  more— the  lady  speaks  it — this  : 

'My  name,  once  mine,  now  thine,  is  closelier  mine, 
For  fame,  could  fame  be  mine,  that  fame  were  thino, 
And  shame,  could  shame  be  thine,  that  shame  were 

mine. 
So  trust  me  not  at  all  or  all  in  all.' 

"  Says  she  not  well  ?  and  there  is  more— this  rhyme 
Is  like  the  fair  pearl  necklace  of  the  Queen, 
That  burst  in  dancing,  and  the  pearls  were  spilt ; 
Some  lost,  some  stolen,  some  as  relics  kept. 
But  nevermore  the  same  two  sister  pearls 
Ran  down  the  silken  thread  to  kiss  each  other 
On  her  white  neck — so  is  it  with  this  rhyme; 
It  lives  dispersedly  in  many  hands, 
And  every  minstrel  sings  it  differently; 
Yet  is  there  one  true  line,  the  pearl  of  pearls; 
'Man  dreams  of  Fame  while  woman  wakes  to  love. 
True :  Love,  tho'  Love  were  of  the  grossest,  carves 
A  portion  from  the  solid  present,  eats 
And  uses,  careless  of  the  rest;  but  Fame, 
The  Fame  that  follows  death  is  nothing  to  as ; 
And  what  is  Fame  in  life  but  half-disfaine, 
And  counterchanged  with  darkness  ?  you  yoursfc;f 


VIVIEN. 


167 


Know  well  that  Envy  calls  you  Devil's  son, 
And  since  you  seem  the  Master  of  all  Art, 
They  fain  would  make  you  Master  of  all  Vice." 

And  Merlin  lock'd  his  hand  in  hers  and  said, 
"I  once  was  looking  for  a  magic  weed, 
And  found  a  fair  young  squire  who  sat  alone, 
Had  carved  himself  a  knightly  shield  of  wood, 
And  then  was  painting  on  it  fancied  arms, 
Azure,  an  Eagle  rising,  or,  the  Sun 
In  dexter  chief;  the  scroll  'I  follow  fame,' 
And  speaking  not,  but  leaning  over  him, 
I  took  his  brush  and  blotted  out  the  bird, 
And  made  a  Gardener  putting  in  a  grafl, 
With  this  for  motto,  'Rather  use  than  fame.' 
You  should  have  seen  him  blush :  but  afterwards 
He  made  a  stalwart  knight.    O  Vivien. 
For  you,  methiuks  you  think  you  love  me  well ; 
For  me,  I  love  you  somewhat:  rest:  and  Love 
Should  have  some  rest  and  pleasure  in  himself, 
Not  ever  be  too  curious  for  a  boon, 
Too  prurient  for  a  proof  against  the  grain 
Of  him  you  say  you  love :  but  Fame  with  men, 
Being  but  ampler  means  to  serve  mankind, 
Should  have  small  rest  or  pleasure  in  herself, 
Bnt  work  as  vassal  to  the  larger  love, 
That  dwarfs  the  petty  love  of  one  to  one. 
Use  gave  me  Fame  at  first,  and  Fame  again 
Increasing  gave  me  use.    Lo,  there  my  boon ! 
What  other  ?  for  men  sought  to  prove  me  vile, 
Because  I  wish'd  to  give  them  greater  minds; 
And  then  did  Envy  call  me  Devil's  soil; 
The  sick  weak  beast  seeking  Jo  help  herself 
By  striking  at  her  better,  miss'd,  and  brought 
Her  own  claw  back,  and  wounded  her  own  heart. 
Sweet  were  the  days  when  I  was  all  unknown, 
But  when  my  name  was  lifted  up,  the  storm 
Broke  on  the  mountain  and  I  cared  not  for  it. 
Right  well  know  I  that  Fame  is  half-disfame, 
Yet  needs  must  work  jny  work.    That  other  fame, 
To  one  at  least,  who  hath  not  children,  vague, 
The  cackle  of  the  unborn  about  the  grave, 
I  cared  not  for  it:  a  single  misty  star, 
Which  is  the  second  in  a  line  of  stars 
That  seem  a  sword  beneath  a  belt  of  three, 
I  never  gazed  upon  it  but  I  dreamt 
Of  some  vast  charm  concluded  in  that  star 
To  make  fame  nothing.    Wherefore,  if  I  fear, 
Giving  you  power  upon  me  thro'  this  charm, 
That  you  might  play  me  falsely,  having  power, 
However  well  yon  think  you  love  me  now 
(As  sons  of  kings  loving  in  pupilage 
Have  tnrn'd  to  tyrants  when  they  came  to  power) 
I  rather  dread  the  loss  of  use  than  fame ; 
If  you — and  not  so  much  from  wickedness, 
As  some  wild  turn  of  anger,  or  a  mood 
Of  overstrain'd  affection,  it  may  be, 
To  keep  me  all  to  your  own  self,  or  else 
A  sudden  spurt  of  woman's  jealousy, 
Should  try  this  charm  on  whom  you  say  yoij  love." 

And  Vivien  answer'd,  smiling  as  in  wrath : 
"  Have  I  not  sworn  ?    I  am  not  trusted.    Good  ! 
Well,  hide  it,  hide  it;  I  shall  find  it  out; 
And  being  found  take  heed  of  Vivien. 
A  woman  and  not  trusted,  doubtless  I 
Might  feel  some  sudden  turn  of  anger  born 
Of  your  misfaith ;  and  your  fine  epithet 
Is  accurate  too,  for  this  full  love  of  mine 
Without  the  full  heart  back  may  merit  well 
Your  term  of  overstrain'd.    So  used  as  I, 
My  daily  wonder  is,  I  love  at  all. 
And  as  to  woman's  jealousy,  O  why  not  ? 

0  to  whrt  end.  except  a  jealous  one, 
Ami  one  to  make  me  jealous  if  I  love, 
Wai  this  fair  cbarm  invented  by  youiself  ? 

1  well  believe  that  all  about  this  world 
You  cage  a  buxom  captive  here  and  there, 


Closed  in  the  four  walls  of  a  hollow  tower 
From  which  is  no  escape  forevermore." 

Then  the  great  Master  merrily  answer'd  her; 
"Full  many  a  love  in  loving  youth  was  mine, 
I  needed  then  no  charm  to  keep  them  mine 
But  youth'  and  love ;  and  that  full  heart  of  yours 
Whereof  you  prattle,  may  now  assure  you  mine ; 
So  live  nucharm'd.    For  those  who  wrought  it  first, 
The  wrist  is  parted  from  the  hand  that  waved, 
The  feet  unmortised  from  their  ankle-bones 
Who  paced  it,  ages  back:  but  will  you  hear 
The  legend  as  in  guerdon  for  your  rhyme  ? 

"There  lived  a  King  in  the  most  Eastern  East, 
Less  old  than  I,  yet  older,  for  my  blood 
Hath  earnest  in  it  of  far  springs  to  be. 
A  tawny  pirate  auchor'd  in  his  port, 
Whose  bark  had  plunder'd  twenty  nameless  isles; 
And  passing  one,  at  the  high  peep  of  dawn, 
He  saw  two  cities  in  a  thousand  boats 
All  fighting  for  a  woman  on  the  sea. 
And  pushing  his  black  craft  among  them  all, 
He  lightly  scatter'd  theirs  and  brought  her  off, 
With  loss  of  half  his  people  arrow-slain ; 
A  maid  so  smooth,  so  white,  so  wonderful, 
They  said  a  light  came  from  her  when  she  moved 
And  since  the  pirate  would  not  yield  her  up, 
The  King  impaled  him  for  his  piracy; 
Then  made  her  Queen :  but  those  isle-nurtur'd  eyes 
Waged  such  unwilling  tho'  successful  war 
On  all  the  youth,  they  sicken'd ;  councils  thinn'd, 
And  armies  waned,  for  magnet-like  she  drew 
The  rustiest  iron  of  old  fighters'  hearts ; 
And  beasts  themselves  would  worship ;  camels  knelt 
Unbidden,  and  the  brutes  of  mountain  back 
That  carried  kings  in  castles,  bow'd  black  knees 
Of  homage,  ringing  with  their  serpent  hands, 
To  make  her  smile,  her  golden  ankle-bells. 
What  wonder,  being  jealous,  that  he  sent 
His  horns  of  proclamation  out  thro'  all 
The  hundred  under-kingdoms  that  he  sway'd 
To  find  a  wizard  who  might  teach  the  King 
Some  charm,  which  being  wrought  upon  the  Queen 
Might  keep  her  all  his  own :  to  such  a  one 
He  promised  more  than  ever  king  has  given, 
A  league  of  mountain  full  of  golden  mines, 
A  province  with  a  hundred  miles  of  coast, 
A  palace  and  a  princess,  all  for  him: 
But  on  all  those  who  tried  and  fail'd,  the  King 
Pronounced  a  dismal  sentence,  meaning  by  it 
To  keep  the  list  low  and  pretenders  back, 
Or  like  a  king,  not  to  be  trifled  with— 
Their  heads  should  moulder  on  the  city  gates. 
And  many  tried  and  fail'd,  because  the  charm 
Of  nature  in  her  overbore  their  own : 
And  many  a  wizard  brow  bleach'd  on  the  walls « 
And  many  weeks  a  troop  of  carrion  crows 
Hung  like  a  cloud  above  the  gateway  towers." 

And  Vivien,  breaking  in  upon  him,  said  : 
"I  sit  and  gather  honey;  yet,  methinks, 
Your  tongue  has  tript  a  little :  ask  yourself. 
The  lady  never  made  unwilling  war 
With  those  fine  eyes :  she  had  her  pleasure  in  it, 
And  made  her  good  nu-.n  jealous  with  good  cause. 
And  lived  there  neither  dame  nor  damsel  then 
Wroth  at  a  lover's  loss?  were  all  as  tame, 
I  mean,  as  noble,  as  their  Queen  was  fair? 
Not  one  to  flirt  a  venom  at  her  eyes, 
Or  pinch  a  murderous  dust  into  her  drink, 
Or  make  her  paler  with  a  poison'd  rose? 
Well,  those  were  not  our  days ;  but  did  they  find 
A  wizard?    Tell  ine,  was  he  like  to  thee?" 

She  ceased,  and  made  her  lithe  arm  round  his  neck 
Tighten,  and  then  drew  back,  and  let  her  eyes 
Speak  for  her,  glowing  on  him,  like  a  bride's 
On  her  new  lord,  her  own,  the  first  of  men. 


168 


VIVIEN. 


"And  pushing  his  black  craft  among  them  all, 
He  lightly  Bcatter'd  theirs  and  brought  her  off, 
"With  loss  of  half  his  people  arrow-slain." 


He  answer'd  laughing,  "Nay,  not  like  to  me. 

At  last  they  found— his  foragers  for  charms 

A  little  glassy-headed  hairless  man, 

Who  lived  alone  in  a  great  wild  on  grass; 

Read  but  one  book,  and  ever  reading  grew 

So  grated  down  and  flled  away  with  thought, 

So  lean  his  eyes  were  monstrous ;  while  the  skin 

Clung  but  to  crate  and  basket,  ribs  and  spine. 

And  since  he  kept  his  mind  on  one  sole  aim, 

Nor  ever  touch'd  fierce  wine,  nor  tasted  flesh, 

Nor  own'd  a  sensual  wish,  to  him  the  wall 

That  sunders  ghosts  and  shadow-casting  men 

Became  a  crystal,  and  he  saw  them  thro'  it, 

And  heard  their  voices  talk  behind  the  wall, 

And  learnt  their  elemental  secrets,  powers 

And  forces ;  often  o'er  the  sun's  bright  eye 

Drew  the  vast  eyelid  of  an  inky  cloud, 

And  lash'd  it  at  the  base  with  slanting  storm; 

Or  in  the  noon  of  mist  and  driving  rain, 

When  the  lake  whiteu'd  and  the  pine-wood  roar'd, 

And  the  cairn'd  mountain  was  a  shadow,  suun'd 


The  world  to  peace  again:  here  was  the  man. 
And  so  by  force  they  dragg'd  him  to  the  King. 
And  then  he  taught  the  King  to  charm  the  Queen 
In  such  wise,  that  no  man  could  see  her  more, 
Nor  saw  she  save  the  King,  who  wrought  the  charnij 
Coming  and  going,  and  she  lay  as  dead, 
And  lost  all  use  of  life :  but  when  the  King 
Made  proffer  of  the  league  of  golden  mines, 
The  province  with  a  hundred  miles  of  coast, 
The  palace  and  the  princess,  that  old  man 
Went  back  to  his  old  wild,  and  lived  on  grass, 
And  vanish'd,  and  his  book  came  down  to  me." 

And  Vivien  answer'd,  smiling  saucily: 
"Yon  have  the  book:  the  charm  is  written  in  it« 
Good :  take  my  counsel :  let  me  know  it  at  once : 
For  keep  it  like  a  puzzle  chest  in  chest, 
With  each  chest  lock'd  and  padlock'd  thirty-fold, 
And  whelm  all  this  beneath  as  vast  a  mound 
As  after  fnrious  battle  turfs  the  slain 
Ou  some  wild  dowu  above  the  windy  deep, 


VIVIEN. 


169 


I  yet  should  strike  upon  a  suddeu  means 
To  dig,  pick,  open,  find  and  read  the  charm : 
Then,  if  I  tried  it,  who  should  blame  me  then  ?" 

And  smiling  as  a  Master  smiles  at  one 
That  is  not  of  his  school,  nor  any  school 
But  that  where  blind  and  naked  Ignorance 
Delivers  brawling  judgments,  unashamed, 
On  all  things  all  day  long,  he  answered  her : 

"  You  read  the  book,  my  pretty  Vivien ! 
O  ay,  it  is  but  twenty  pages  long, 
But  every  page  having  an  ample  marge, 
An  every  marge  enclosing  in  the  midst 
A  square  of  text  that  looks  a  little  blot, 
The  text  no  larger  than  the  limbs  of  fleas ; 
And  every  square  of  text  an  awful  charm, 
Writ  in  a  language  that  has  long  gone  by. 
80  long,  that  mountains  have  arisen  since 
With  cities  on  their  flanks — you  read  the  book ! 
And  every  margin  scribbled,  crost  and  cramm'd 
With  comment,  densest  condensation,  hard 
To  mind  and  eye ;  but  the  long  sleepless  nights 
Of  my  long  life  have  made  it  easy  to  me. 
And  none  can  read  the  text,  not  even  I ; 
And  none  can  read  the  comment  but  myself; 
And  in  the  comment  did  I  find  the  charm. 
O,  the  results  are  simple;  a  mere  child 
Might  use  it  to  the  harm  of  any  one, 
And  never  could  undo  it:  ask  no  more: 
For  tho'  yon  should  not  prove  it  upon  me, 
But  keep  that  oath  you  swore,  you  might,  perchance, 
Assay  it  on  some  one  of  the  Table  Round, 
And  all  because  you  dream  they  babble  of  you." 

And  Vivien,  frowning  in  true  anger,  said : 
"What  dare  the  full-fed  liars  say  of  me? 
They  ride  abroad  redressing  human  wrongs! 
They  sit  with  knife  in  meat  and  wine  in  horn. 
They  bound  to  holy  vows  of  chastity ! 
Were  I  not  woman,  I  could  tell  a  tale. 
But  you  are  man,  yon  well  can  understand 
The  shame  that  cannot  be  explain'd  for  shame. 
Not  one  of  all  the  drove  should  touch  me:  swine!" 

Then  answer'd  Merlin  careless  of  her  words, 
"You  breathe  but  accusation  vast  and  vague, 
Spleen-born,  I  think,  and  proofless.    If  you  know, 
Set  up  the  charge  you  know,  to  stand  or  fall !" 

And  Vivien  answer'd,  frowning  wrathfnlly : 
"  O  ay,  what  say  ye  to  Sir  Valence,  him 
Whose  kinsman  left  him  watcher  o'er  his  wife 
And  two  fair  babes,  and  went  to  distant  lands ; 
Was  one  year  gone,  and  on  returning  found 
Not  two  but  three :  there  lay  the  reckling,  one 
But  one  hour  ol.d  !    What  said  the  happy  sire? 
A  seven  months'  babe  had  been  a  truer  gift. 
Those  twelve  sweet  moons  confused  his  fatherhood !' 

Then  answer'd  Merlin:  "Nay,  I  know  the  tale. 
Sir  Valence  wedded  with  an  outland  dame: 
Some  cause  had  kept  him  snnder'd  from  his  wife: 
One  child  they  had:  it  lived  with  her:  she  died: 
His  kinsman  travelling  on  his  own  affair 
Was  charged  by  Valence  to  bring  home  the  child. 
He  brought,  not  found  it  therefore:  take  the  truth.' 

"O  ay,"  said  Vivien,  "overtrne  a  tale. 
What  say  ye  then  to  sweet  Sir  Sagramore, 
That  ardent  man  ?  '  to  pluck  the  flower  in  season ; 
So  gays  the  song,  'I  trow  it  is  no  treason.' 
O  Master,  sha'.l  we  call  him  overqnick 
To  crop  his  own  sweet  rose  before  the  hour?" 

And  Merlin  answer'd:  "Overquick  are  you 
To  catch  a  lothly  plume  fall'n  from  the  wing 
Of  that  foul  bird  of  rapine  whose  whole  prey 


Is  man's  good  name:  he  never  wrong'd  his  bride. 
I  know  the  tale.    An  angry  gust  of  wind 
Puff'd  out  his  torch  among  the  myriad-room'd 
And  many-corridor'd  complexities 
Of  Arthur's  palace :  then  he  found  a  door 
And  darkling  felt  the  sculptured  ornament 
That  wreathen  round  it  made  it  seem  his  own ; 
And  wearied  oat  made  for  the  couch  and  slept, 
A  stainless  man  beside  a  stainless  maid ; 
And  either  slept,  nor  knew  of  other  there; 
Till  the  high  dawn  piercing  the  royal  rose 
In  Arthur's  casement  glimmer'd  chastely  down, 
Blushing  upon  them  blushing,  and  at  once 
He  rose  withgut  a  word  and  parted  from  her: 
But  when  the  thing  was  blazed  about  the  court, 
The  brute  world  howling  forced  them  into  bonds, 
And  as  it  chanced  they  are  happy,  being  pure." 

"O  ay,"  said  Vivien,  "that  were  likely  too. 
What  say  ye  then  to  fair  Sir  Percivale 
And  of  the  horrid  foulness  that  he  wrought, 
The  saintly  youth,  the  spotless  lamb  of  Christ, 
Or  some  black  wether  of  St.  Satan's  fold. 
What,  in  the  precincts  of  the  chapel-yard, 
Among  the  knightly  brasses  of  the  graves, 
And  by  the  cold  Hie  Jacets  of  the  dead !" 

And  Merlin  answer'd,  careless  of  her  charge : 
"  A  sober  man  is  Percivale  and  pure ; 
But  once  in  life  was  fluster'd  with  new  wine; 
Then  paced  for  coolness  in  the  chapel-yard, 
Where  one  of  Satan's  shepherdesses  caught 
And  meant  to  stamp  him  with  her  master's  mark; 
And  that  he  siun'd,  is  not  believable ; 
For,  look  upon  his  face  !— but  if  he  sinn'd, 
The  sin  that  practice  burns  into  the  blood,     • 
And  not  the  one  dark  hour  which  brings  remorse, 
Will  brand  us,  after,  of  whose  fold  we  be : 
Or  else  were  he,  the  hoi}'  king,  vrhose  hymns 
Are  chanted  in  the  minster,  worse  than  all. 
But  is  your  spleen  froth'd  out,  or  have  ye  more  ?" 

And  Vivien  answer'd  frowning  yet  in  wrath: 
"O  ay;  what  say  ye  to  Sir  Lancelot,  friend? 
Traitor  or  true?  that  commerce  with  the  Queen, 
I  ask  yon,  is  it  clamor'd  by  the  child, 
Or  whisper'd  in  the  corner?  do  you  know  it?" 

To  which  he  nnswer'd  sadly:  "Tea,  I  know  H. 
Sir  Lancelot  went  ambassador,  at  first, 
To  fetch  her,  and  she  took  him  for  the  King; 
So  flxt  her  fancy  on  him:  let  him  be, 
But  have  you  no  one  word  of  loyal  praise 
For  Arthur,  blameless  King  and  stainless  man  ?" 

She  answer'd  with  a  low  and  chuckling  laugh : 
".  Him  ?"  is  he  man  at  all,  who  knows  and  winks  ? 
Sees  what  his  fair  bride  is  and  does,  and  winks  ? 
By  which  the  good  king  means  to  blind  himself, 
And  blinds  himself  and  all  the  Table  Round 
To  all  the  foulness  that  they  work.    Myself 
Could  call  him  (were  it  not  for  womanhood) 
The  pretty,  popular  name  such  manhood  earns, 
Could  call  him  the  main  cause  of  all  their  crime ; 
Yea,  were  he  not  crown'd  king,  coward,  and  fool." 

Then  Merlin  to  his  own  heart,  loathing,  said: 
"  O  true  and  tender !  O  my  liege  and  king '. 
O  selfless  man  and  stainless  gentleman, 
Who  wouldst  against  thine  own  eye-witness  fain 
Have  all  men  true  and  leal,  all  women  pure: 
How,  in  the  mouths  of  base  interpreters, 
From  over-fineness  not  intelligible 
To  things  with  every  sense  a?  false  and  foul 
As  the  poached  filth  that  floods  the  middle  street, 
Is  thy  white  blamelessness  accounted  blame  1" 


170 


VIVIEN. 


But  Vivien  deeming  Merlin  overborne 
By  instance,  recommenced,  and  let  her  tongue 
Rage  like  a  fire  among  the  noblest  names, 
Polluting,  and  imputing  her  whole  self, 
Defaming  and  defacing,  till  she  left 
Not  even  Lancelot  brave,  nor  Galahad  clean. 

Her  words  had  issue  other  than  she  will'd. 
He  dragg'd  his  eyebrow  bushes  down,  and  made 
A  snowy  penthouse  for  his  hollow  eyes, 
And  mutter'd  in  himself,  "TeU'tier  the  charm! 
So,  if  she  had  it,  would  she  rail  on  me 
To  snare  the  next,  and  if  she  have  it  not, 
So  will  she  rail.    What  did  the  w&ntqn  say? 
'Not  mount  as  high;'  we  scarce  tan  sink  as  low: 
For  men  at  most  differ  as  Heaven  and  earth, 
But  women,  worst  and  best,  as  Heaven  and  Hell. 
I  know  the  Table  Round,  my  friends  of  old  ; 
All  brave,  and  many  generous,  and  some  chaste. 
I  think  she  cloaks  the  wounds  of  loss  with  lies ; 
I  do  believe  she  tempted  them  and  fail'd, 
She  is  so  bitter:  for  fine  plots  may  fail, 
Tho'  harlots  paint  their  talk  as  well  as  face 
With  colors  of  the  heart  that  are  not  theirs. 
I  will  not  let  her  know :  nine  tithes  of  times 
Face-flatterers  and  backbiters  are  the  same. 
And  they,  sweet  soul,  that  most  impute  a  crime 
Are  pronest  to  it,  and  impute  themselves, 
Wanting  the  mental  rage ;  or  low  desire 
Not  to  feel  lowest  makes  them  level  all : 
Yea,  they  would  pare  the  mountain  to  the  plain, 
To  leave  an  equal  baseness ;  and  in  this 
Are  harlots  like  the  crowd,  that  if  they  find 
Some  stain  or  blemish  in  a  name  of  note, 
Not  grieving  that  their  greatest  are  so  small, 
Inflate  themselves  with  some  insane  delight, 
And  judge  all  nature  from  her  feet  of  clay, 
Without  the  will  to  lift  their  eyes,  and  see 
Her  godlike  head  crown'd  with  spiritual  fire, 
And  touching  other  worlds.    I  am  weary  of  her." 

He  spoke  in  words  part  heard,  in  whispers  part, 
Half-suffocated  in  the  hoary  fell 
And  many-winter'd  fleece  of  throat  and  chin. 
But  Vivien,  gathering  somewhat  of  his  mood, 
And  hearing  "  harlot "  mutter'd  twice  or  thnce, 
Leapt  from  her  session  on  his  lap,  and  stood 
Stiff  as  a  viper  frozen :  loathsome  sight, 
How  from  the  rosy  lips  of  life  and  love, 
Flash1  d  the  bare-grinuing  skeleton  of  death  ! 
White  was  her  cheek ;  sharp  breaths  of  anger  pnfTd 
Her  fairy  nostril  out;  her  hand  half-clench 'd 
Went  faltering  sideways  downward  to  her  belt, 
And  feeling ;  had  she  found  a  dagger  there 
(For  in  a  wink  the  false  love  turns  to  hate) 
She  would  have  stabb'd  him ;  but  she  found  it  not : 
His  eye  was  calm,  and  suddenly  she  took 
To  bitter  weeping  like  a  beaten  child, 
A  long,  long  weeping,  not  consolable. 
Then  her  false  voice  made  way  broken  with  sobs. 

"O  crueller  than  was  ever  told  in  tale, 
Or  sung  in  song !  O  vainly  lavish'd  love  ! 

0  cruel,  there  was  nothing  wild  or  strange, 
Or  seeming  shameful,  for  what  shame  in  love, 
So  love  be  true,  and  not  as  yours  is — nothing 
Pool  Vivien  had  not  done  to  win  his  trust 
Who  call'd  her  what  he  call'd  her— all  her  crime, 
All— all — the  wish  to  prove  him  wholly  hers." 

She  mused  a  little,  and  then  clapt  her  hands 
Together  with  a  wailing  shriek,  and  said: 
"Stabb'd  through  the  heart's  affections  to  the  heart! 
Seeth'd  like  the  kid  in  its  own  mother's  milk ! 
Kiil'd  with  a  word  worse  than  a  life  of  blows ! 

1  thought  that  he  was  gentle,  being  great: 

0  God,  that  I  had  loved  a  smaller  man  I 

1  should  have  found  in  him  a  greater  heart. 


D,  I,  that  flattering  my  true  passion,  saw 

The  knights,  the  court,  the  king,  dark  in  your  light, 

Who  loved  to  make  men  darker  than  they  are, 

Because  of  that  high  pleasure  which  I  had 

To  seat  you  sole  upon  my  pedestal 

Of  worship— I  am  answer'cl,  and  henceforth 

The  course  of  life  that  seem'd  so  flowery  to  me 

With  you  for  guide  and  master,  only  you, 

Becomes  the  sea-cliff  pathway  broken  short, 

And  ending  in  a  ruin— nothing  left, 

But  into  some  low  cave  to  crawl,  and  there, 

If  the  wolf  spare  me,  weep  my  life  away, 

Kiil'd  with  unutterable  un kindliness." 

She  paused,  she  turn'd  away,  she  hung  her  head, 
The  snake  of  gold  slid  from  her  hair,  the  braid 
Slipt  and  uncoil'd  itself,  she  wept  afresh, 
And  the  dark  wood  grew  darker  toward  the  storm 
In  silence,  while  his  anger  slowly  died 
Within  him,  till  he  let  his  wisdom  go 
For  ease  of  heart,  and  half  believed  her  true : 
Call'd  her  to  shelter  in  the  hollow  oak, 
"Come  from  the  storm,"  and  having  no  reply, 
Gazed  at  the  heaving  shoulder,  and  the  face 
Hand-hidden,  as  for  utmost  grief  or  shame  ; 
Then  thrice  essay'd  by  tenderest-touching  terms 
To  sleek  her  ruffled  peace  of  mind,  in  vain. 
At  last  she  let  herself  be  couquer'd  by  him, 
And  as  the  cageling  newly  flown  returns, 
The  seeming-injured  simple-hearted  thing 
Came  to  her  old  perch  back,  and  settled  there. 
There  while  she  sat,  half-falling  from  his  knees, 
Half-nestled  at  his  heart,  and  since  he  saw 
The  slow  tear  creep  from  her  closed  eyelid  vet, 
About  her,  more  in  kindness  than  in  love, 
The  gentle  wizard  cast  a  shielding  arm. 
But  she  dislink'd  herself  at  once  and  rose, 
Her  arms  upon  her  breast  across,  and  stood 
A  virtuous  gentlewoman  deeply  wrong'd, 
Upright  and  flush'd  before  him:  then  she  said: 

"There  must  be  now  no  passages  of  love 
Betwixt  us  twain  henceforward  evermore. 
Since,  if  I  be  what  I  am  grossly  call'd, 
What  should  be  granted  which  your  own  gross  heart 
Would  reckon  worth  the  taking?    I  will  go. 
In  truth,  but  one  thing  now— better  have  died 
Thrice  than  have  ask'd  it  once— could  make  me  stay — 
That  proof  of  trust — so  often  asked  in  vain ! 
How  justly,  after  that  vile  term  of  yours, 
I  find  with  grief!    I  might  believe  you  then, 
Who  knows  ?  once  more.    O,  what  was  once  to  me 
Mere  matter  of  the  fancy,  now  has  grown 
The  vast  necessity  of  heart  and  life. 
Farewell:  think  kindly  of  me,  for  I  fear 
My  fate  or  fault,  omitting  gayer  youth 
For  one  so  old,  must  be  to  love  you  still. 
But  ere  I  leave  you  let  me  swear  once  more 
That  if  I  schemed  against  your  peace  in  this, 
May  yon  just  heaven,  that  darkens  o'er  me,  send 
One  flash,  that,  missing  all  things  else,  may  make 
My  scheming  brain  a  cinder,  if  I  lie." 

Scarce  had  she  ceased,  when  out  of  heaven  a  bolt 
(For  now  the  storm  was  close  above  them)  struck, 
Furrowing  a  giant  oak,  and  javelining 
With  darted  spikes  and  splinters  of  the  wood 
The  dark  earth  round.    He  raised  his  eyes  and  snw 
The  tree  that  shone  white-listed  thro'  the  gloom. 
But  Vivien,  fearing  heaven  had  heard  her  oath, 
And  dazzled  by  the  livid-flickering  fork, 
And  deafen'd  with  the  stammering  cracks  and  claps 
That  follow'd,  flying  back  anc!  crying  out, 
"O  Merlin,  tho'  you  do  not  lo.e  me.  save, 
Yet  save  me  !"  clung  to  Mm  ai  d  hu^g'd  h  m  close: 
And  call'd  him  dear  protector  in  her  fright, 
Nor  yet  forgot  her  practice  in  her  fright, 
But  wrought  upon  his  mood  and  hugg'd  him  close. 


ELAINE. 


171 


•The  pale  blood  of  the  wizard  at  her  touch 
Took  gayer  colors,  like  an  opal  warra'd. 
She  blamed  berself  for  telling  hearsay  tales: 
She  shook  from  fear,  and  for  her  fault  she  wept 
Of  petnlancy ;  she  call'd  him  lord  and  liege, 
Her  seer,  her  bard,  her  silver  star  of  eve, 
Her  God,  her  Merlin,  the  one  passionate  love 
Of  her  whole  life ;  and  ever  overhead 
Bellow'd  the  tempest,  and  the  rotten  branch 
Snapt  in  the  rushing  of  the  river-rain 
Above  them ;  and  in  change  of  glare  and  gloom 
Her  eyes  and  neck  glittering  went  and  came; 
Till  now  the  storm,  its  burst  of  passion  spent, 
Moaning  and  calling  out  of  other  lands, 
Had  left  the  ravaged  woodland  yet  once  more 
To  peace ;  and  what  should  not  have  been  had  been, 
For  Merlin,  overtalk'd  and  overworn, 
Had  yielded,  told  her  all  the  charm,  and  slept. 

Then,  in  one  moment,  she  put  forth  the  charm 
Of  woven  paces  and  of  waving  hands, 
And  in  the  hollow  oak  he  lay  as  dead, 
And  lost  to  life  and  use  and  name  and  fame. 

Then  crying  "I  have  made  his  glory  mine," 
And  shrieking  out  "  O  fool !"  the  harlot  leapt 
Adown  the  forest,  and  the  thicket  closed 
Behind  uer,  and  the  forest  echo'd  "  fool." 


ELAINE. 

ELAINE  the  fair,  Elaine  the  lovable, 
Elaine,  the  lily  maid  of  Astolat, 
High  in  her  chamber  up  a  tower  to  the  east 
Guarded  the  sacred  shield  of  Lancelot ; 
Which  first  she  placed  where  morning's  earliest  ray 
Might  strike  it,  and  awake  her  with  the  gleam ; 
Then  fearing  rnst  or  soilure,  fashion 'd  for  it 
A  case  of  silk,  and  braided  thereupon 
All  the  devices  blazon'd  on  the  shield 
In  their  own  tinct,  and  added,  of  her  wit, 
A  border  fantasy  of  branch  and  flower, 
And  yellow-throated  nestling  in  the  nest. 
Nor  rested  thus  content,  but  day  by  day 
Leaving  her  household  and  good  father  climb'd 
That  eastern  tower,  and  entering  barr'd  her  door, 
Stript  off  the  case,  and  read  the  naked  shield, 
Now  guess'd  a  hidden  meaning  in  his  arms, 
Now  made  a  pretty  history  to  herself 
Of  every  dint  a  sword  had  beaten  in  it, 
And  every  scratch  a  lance  had  made  upon  it, 
Conjecturing  when  and  where :  this  cut  is  fresh  ; 
That  ten  years  back ;  this  dealt  him  at  Caerlyle ; 
That  at  Caerleon ;  this  at  Camelot : 
And  ah,  God's  mercy,  what  a  stroke  was  there ! 
And  here  a  thrust  that  might  have  kill'd,  but  God 
Broke  the  strong  lance,  and  roll'd  his  enemy  down, 
And  saved  him:  so  she  lived  in  fantasy. 

How  came  the  lily  maid  by  that  good  shield 
Of  Lancelot,  she  that  knew  not  ev'n  his  name? 
He  left  it  with  her,  when  he  rode  to  tilt 
For  the  great  diamond  in  the  diamond  jousts, 
Which  Arthur  had  ordain'd,  and  by  that  name 
Had  named  them,  since  a  diamond  was  the  prize. 

For  Arthur  when  none  knew  from  whence  he  came, 
Long  ere  the  people  chose  him  for  their  king, 
Roving  the  trackless  realms  of  Lyonnesse, 
Had  found  a  glen,  gray  boulder  and  black  tarn. 
A  horror  lived  about  the  tarn,  and  clave 
Like  its  own  mists  to  all  the  mountain  side : 
For  here  two  brothers,  one  a  king,  had  met 
And  fought  together:  but  their  names  were  lost 
And  each  had  slain  his  brother  at  a  blow, 
And  down  they  fell  and  made  the  glen  abhorr'd: 


And  there  they  lay  till  all  their  bones  were  bleatheil, 

And  lichen'd  into  color  with  the  crags : 

And  he  that  once  was  king  had  on  a  crown 

Of  diamonds,  one  in  front,  and  four  aside. 

And  Arthur  came,  and  laboring  up  the  pass 

All  in  a  misty  moonshine,  unawares 

Had  trodden  that  crown'd  skeleton,  and  the  skull 

Brake  from  the  nape,  and  from  the  skull  the  crown 

Roll'd  into  light,  and  turning  on  its  rims 

Fled  like  a  glittering  rivulet  to  the  tarn : 

And  down  the  shingly  scaur  he  plunged,  and  canght, 

And  set  it  on  his  head,  and  in  his  heart 

Heard  murmurs,  "  Lo,  thou  likewise  shall  be  king." 

Thereafter,  when  a  king,  he  had  the  gems 
Pluck'd  from  the  crown,  and  show'd  them  to  his 

knights, 

Saying  "These  jewels,  .whereupon  I  chanced 
Divinely,  are  the  kingdom's,  not  the  king's — 
For  public  use :  henceforward  let  there  be, 
Once  every  year,  a  joust  for  one  of  these : 
For  so  by  nine  years'  proof  we  needs  must  learn 
Which  is  our  mightiest,  and  ourselves  shall  grow 
In  use  of  arms  and  manhood,  till  we  drive 
The  Heathen,  who,  some  say,  shall  rule  the  land 
Hereafter,  which  God  hinder."    Thus  he  spoke : 
And  eight  years  past,  eight  jousts  had  been,  and  still 
Had  Lancelot  won  the  diamond  of  the  year, 
With  purpose  to  present  them  to  the  Queen, 
When  all  were  won:  but  meaning  all  at  once 
To  snare  her  royal  fancy  with  a  boon 
Worth  half  her  realm,  had  never  spoken  word. 

Now  for  the  central  diamond  and  the  last 
And  largest,  Arthur,  holding  then  his  court 
Hard  on  the  river  nigh  the  place  which  now 
Is  this  world's  hugest,  let  proclaim  a  joust 
At  Camelot,  and  when  the  time  drew  nigh 
Spake  (for  she  had  been  sick)  to  Guinevere, 
"Are  yon  so  sick,  my  Queen,  you  cannot  move 
To  these  fair  jousts?"    "Yea,  lord,"  she  said,  "you 

know  ft." 

"  Then  will  you  miss,"  he  answer'd  "  the  great  deeds 
Of  Lancelot,  and  his  prowess  in  the  lists, 
A  sight  you  love  to  look  on."    And  the  Queen 
Lifted  her  eyes,  and  they  dwelt  languidly 
On  Lancelot,  where  he  stood  beside  the  King. 
He  thinking  that  he  read  her  meaning  there, 
'•  Stay  with  me,  I  am  sick ;  my  love  is  more 
Than  many  diamonds,"  yielded,  and  a  heart, 
Love-loyal  to  the  least  wish  of  the  Queen 
(However  much  he  yearu'd  to  make  complete 
The  tale  of  diamonds  for  his  destined  boon) 
Urged  him  to  speak  against  the  truth,  and  say 
"  Sir  King,  mine  ancient  wound  is  hardly  whole, 
And  lets  me  from  the  saddle :"  and  the  King 
Glanced  first  at  him,  then  her,  and  went  his  way. 
No  sooner  gone  than  suddenly  she  began: 

"  To  blame/my  lord  Sir  Lancelot,  much  to  blame 
Why  go  you  not  to  these  fair  jousts?  the  knights 
Are  half  of  them  our  enemies,  and  the  crowd 
Will  murmur,  lo  the  shameless  ones,  who  take 
Their  pastime  now  the  trustful  king  is  gone  1" 
Then  Lancelot,  vext  at  haying  lied  in  vain : 
"Are  you  so  wise?  you  were  not  once  so  wise, 
My  Queen,  that  summer,  when  you  loved  me  first. 
Then  of  the  crowd  you  took  no  more  account 
Than  of  the  myriad  cricket  of  the  mead, 
WTien  its  own  voice  clings  to  each  blade  of  grass, 
And  every  voice  is  nothing.    As  to  knights, 
Them  surely  can  I  silence  with  all  ease. 
But  now  my  loyal  worship  is  allow'd 
Of  all  men :  many  a  bard,  without  offence, 
Has  link'd  our  names  together  in  his  lay, 
Lancelot,  the  flower  of  bravery,  Guinevere, 
The  pearl  of  beauty :  and  our  knights  at  feast 
Have  pledged  us  in  this  union,  while  the  King 
Would  listen  smiling.    How  then  ?  is  there  more ! 


172 


ELAINE. 


Has  Arthur  spoken  aught  ?  or  would  yourself, 
Now  weary  of  my  service  and  devoir, 
Henceforth  be  truer  to  your  faultless  lord?" 

She  broke  into  a  little  scornful  laugh. 
"Arthur,  my  lord,  Arthur,  the  faultless  King, 
That  passionate  perfection,  my  good  lord — 
But  who  can  gaze  upon  the  Sun  in  heaven? 
He  never  spake  word  of  reproach  to  me, 
He  never  had  a  glimpse  of  mine  untruth, 
He  cares  not  for  me:  only  here  to-day 
There  gleam'd  a  vague  suspicion  in  his  eyes: 
Some  meddling  rogue  has  tamper'd  with  him — else 
Rapt  in  this  fancy  of  his  Table  Round, 
And  swearing  men  to  vows  impossible, 
To  make  them  like  himself:  but,  friend,  to  me 
He  is  all  fault  who  hath  no  fault  at  all: 
For  who  loves  me  must  have  a  touch  of  earth ; 
The  low  sun  makes  the  color  :  I  am  yours, 
Not  Arthur's,  as  you  know,  save  by  the  bond, 
And  therefore  hear  my  words :  go  to  the  jousts : 
The  tiny-trumpeting  gnat  can  break  our  dream 
When  sweetest ;  and  the  vermin  voices  here 
May  buzz  so  loud — we  scorn  them,  but  they  sting." 

Then  answer'd  Lancelot,  the  chief  of  knights, 
"And  with  what  face,  after  my  pretext  made, 
Shall  I  appear,  O  Queen,  at  Camelot,  I 
Before  a  king  who  honors  his  own  word, 
As  if  it  were  his  God's  ?" 

"Yea,"  said  the  Queen, 
"  A  moral  child  without  the  craft  to  rule, 
Else  had  he  not  lost  me:  but  listen  to  me, 
If  I  must  find  you  wit :  we  hear  it  said 
That  men  go  down  before  your  spear  at  a  touch 
But  knowing  you  are  Lancelot ;  your  great  name, 
This  conquers :  hide  it  therefore ;  go  unknown  : 
Mrin  1  by  this  kiss  you  will:  and  our  true  king 
Will  then  allow  your  pretext,  O  my  knight, 
As  all  for  glory;  for  to  speak  him  true, 
Yon  know  right  well,  how  meek  so  e'er  he  seem, 
No  keener  hunter  after  glory  breathes. 
He  loves  it  in  his  knights  more  than  himself: 
They  prove  to  him  his  work:  win  and  return." 

Then  got  Sir  Lancelot  suddenly  to  horse, 
Wroth  at  himself:  not  willing  to  be  known, 
He  left  the  barren-beaten  thoroughfare, 
Chose  the  green  path  that  show'd  the  rarer  foot, 
And  there  among  the  solitary  downs, 
Full  often  lost  in  fancy,  lost  his  way; 
Till  as  he  traced  a  faintly-shadow'd  track, 
That  all  in  loops  and  links  among  the  dales 
Kan  to  the  Castle  of  Astolat,  he  saw 
Fired  from  the  west,  far  on  a  hill,  the  towers. 
Thither  he  made  and  wound  the  gateway  horn, 
Then  came  an  old,  dumb,  myriad-wrinkled  man ; 
Who  let  him  into  lodging,  and  disarm'd. 
And  Lancelot  marvell'd  at  the  wordless  man : 
And  issuing  found  the  Lord  of  Astolat 
With  two  strong  sons,  Sir  Torre  and  Sir  Lavaine, 
Moving  to  meet  him  in  the  castle  court  ; 
And  close  behind  them  stept  the  lily  maid 
Elaine,  his  daughter :  mother  of  the  house 
There  was  not :  some  light  jest  among  them  rose 
With  laughter  dying  down  as  the  great  knight 
Approach'd  them :  then  the  Lord  of  Astolat, 
"Whence  comest  thon,  my  guest,  and  by  what  name 
Livest  between  the  lips?  for  by  thy  state 
And  presence  I  might  guess  thee  chief  of  those, 
After  the  king,  who  eat  in  Arthur's  halls. 
Him  have  I  seen :  the  rest,  his  Table  Round, 
Known  as  they  are,  to  me  they  are  unknown." 

Then  answer'd  Lancelot,  the  chief  of  knights, 
"Known  am  I,  and  of  Arthur's  hall,  and  known, 
What  I  by  mere  mischance  have  brought,  my  shield. 
But  since  I  go  to  .joust  as  one  unknown 


At  Camelot  for  the  diamond,  ask  me  not, 
Hereafter  you  shall  know  me— and  the  shield — 
I  pray  you  lend  me  one,  if  such  you  have, 
Blank,  or  at  least  with  some  device  not  mine/' 

Then  said  the  Lord  of  Astolat,  "Here  is  Torre's: 
Hurt  in  his  first  tilt  was  my  son,  Sir  Torre. 
And,  so,  God  wot,  his  shield  is  blank  enough. 
His  you  can  have."    Then  added  plain  Sir  Torre, 
"  Yea  since  I  cannot  use  it,  you  may  have  it." 
Here  laugh'd  the  father,  saying,  "Fie,  Sir  Churl, 
Is  that  an  answer  for  a  noble  knight? 
Allow  him :  but  Lavaine,  my  younger  here, 
He  is  so  full  of  lustihood,  he  will  ride 
Joust  for  it,  and  win,  and  bring  it  in  an  hour 
And  set  it  in  this  damsel's  golden  hair, 
To  make  her  thrice  as  wilful  as  before." 

"Nay,  father,  nay,  good  father,  shame  me  not 
Before  this  noble  knight,"  said  young  Lavaine, 
"For  nothing.    Surely  I  but  play'd  on  Torre: 
He  seem'd  so  sullen,  vest  he  could  not  go : 
A  jest,  no  more :  for,  knight,  the  maiden  dreamt 
That  some  one  put  this  diamond  in  her  hand, 
And  that  it  was  too  slippery  to  be  held, 
And  slipt  and  fell  into  some  pool  or  stream, 
The  castle-well,  belike:  and  then  I  said 
That  if  I  went  and  if  I  fought  and  won  it 
(But  all  was  jest  and  joke  among  ourselves) 
Then  must  she  keep  it  safelier.    All  was  jest. 
But  father  give  me  leave,  an  if  he  will, 
To  ride  to  Camelot  with  this  noble  knight: 
Win  shall  I  not,  but  do  my  best  to  win: 
Young  as  I  am,  yet  would  i  do  my  best." 

"So  you  will  grace  me,"  answer'd  Lancelot, 
Smiling  a  moment,  "  with  your  fellowship 
O'er  these  waste  downs  whereon  I  lost  myself, 
Then  were  I  glad  of  you  as  guide  and  friend ; 
And  you  shall  win  this  diamond — as  I  hear, 
It  is  a  fair  large  diamond, — if  you  may, 
And  yield  it  to  this  maiden  if  you  will." 
"A  fair  large  diamond,"  added  plain  Sir  Torre, 
"  Such  be  for  Queens  and  not  for  simple  maids." 
Then  she,  who  held  her  eyes  upon  the  ground, 
Elaine,  and  heard  her  name  so  tost  about, 
Flush'd  slightly  at  the  slight  disparagement 
Before  the  stranger  knight,  who,  looking  at  her, 
Full  courtly,  yet  not  falsely,  thus  retnrn'd : 
"If  what  is  fair  be  but  for  what  is  fair, 
And  only  Queens  are  to  be  counted  so, 
Rash  were  my  judgment  then,  who  deem  this  maid 
Might  wear  as  fair  a  jewel  as  is  on  earth, 
Not  violating  the  bond  of  like  to  like." 

He  spoke  and  ceased :  the  lily  maid  Elaine, 
Won  by  the  mellow  voice  before  she  look'd, 
Lifted  her  eyes,  and  read  his  lineaments. 
The  great  and  guilty  love  he  bare  the  Queen, 
In  battle  with  the  love  he  bare  his  lord, 
Had  marr'd  his  face,  and  mark'd  it  ere  his  time. 
Another  sinning  on  such  heights  with  one, 
The  flower  of  all  the  west  and  all  the  world, 
Had  been  the  sleeker  for  it :  but  in  him 
His  mood  was  often  like  a  fiend,  and  rose 
And  drove  him  into  wastes  and  solitudes 
For  agony,  who  was  yet  a  living  soul. 
Marr'd  as  he  was,  he  seem'd  the  goodliest  man, 
That  ever  among  ladies  ate  in  Hall, 
And  noblest,  when  she  lifted  up  her  eyes. 
However  marr'd,  of  more  than  twice  her  years, 
Seam'd  with  an  ancient  swordcnt  on  the  cheek, 
And  bruised  and  bronzed,  she  lifted  up  her  eyes 
And  loved  him,  with  that  love  which  was  her  doom. 

Then  the  great  knight,  the  darling  of  the  court, 
Loved  of  the  loveliest,  into  that  rude  hall 
Stept  with  all  grace,  and  not  with  half  disdain 


ELAINE. 


173 


Hid  under  grace,  as  in  a  smaller  time, 

But  kindly  man  moving  among  his  kind: 

Whom  they  with  meats  and  vintage  of  their  best 

And  talk  and  minstrel  melody  entertain'd. 

And  much  they  ask'd  of  court  and  Table  Round, 

And  ever  well  and  readily  answer'd  he  : 

But  Lancelot,  when  they  glanced  at  Guinevere, 

Suddenly  speaking  of  the  wordless  man, 

Heard  from  the  Baron  that,  ten  years  before, 

The  heathen  caught  and  reft  him  of  his  tongue. 

"  He  learnt  and  warn'd  me  of  their  fierce  design 

Against  my  house,  and  him  they  caught  and  maiin'd: 

Bnt  I  my  sons  and  little  daughter  fled 

From  bonds  or  death,  and  dwelt  among  the  woods 

By  the  great  river  in  a  boatman's  hut. 

Dull  days  were  those,  till  our  good  Arthur  broke 

The  Pagan  yet  once  more  on  Badon  hill." 

"  O  there,  great  Lord,  doubtless,"  Lavaine  said,  rapt 
By  all  the  sweet  and  sudden  passion  of  youth 
Toward  greatness  in  its  elder,  "you  have  fought. 
O  tell  us ;  for  we  live  apart,  you  know 
Of  Arthur's  glorious  wars."    And  Lancelot  spoke 
And  answer'd  him  at  full,  as  having  been 
With  Arthur  in  the  fight  which  all  day  long 
Rang  by  the  white  mouth  of  the  violent  Glem ; 
And  in  the  four  wild  battles  by  the  shore 
Of  Duglas :  that  on  Bassa ;  then  the  war 
That  thunder'd  in  and  out  the  gloomy  skirts 
Of  Cehdon  the  forest ;  and  again 
By  castle  Gurnion  where  the  glorious  King 
Had  on  his  cuirass  worn  our  Lady's  Head, 
Carved  of  one  emerald,  centred  in  a  sun 
Of  silver  rays,  that  lighten'd  as  he  breathed; 
And  at  Caerleon  had  he  help'd  his  lord, 
When  the  strong  neighings  of  the  wild  white  Horse 
Set  every  gilded  parapet  shuddering ; 
And  up  in  Agned  Cathregonion  too, 
And  down  the  waste  sand-shores  of  Trath  Treroit, 
Where  many  a  heathen  fell ;  "  and  on  the  mount 
Of  Badon  I  myself  beheld  the  King 
Charge  at  the  head  of  all  his  Table  Round, 
And  all  his  legions  crying  Christ  and  him, 
And  break  them  ;  and  I  saw  him,  after,  stand 
High  on  a  heap  of  slain,  from  spur  to  plume 
Red  as  the  rising  sun  with  heathen  blood, 
And  seeing  me,  with  a  great  voice  he  cried, 
'They  are  broken,  they  are  broken,'  for  the  King, 
However  mild  he  seems  at  home,  nor  cares 
For  triumph  in  our  mimic  wars,  the  jousts — 
For  if  his  own  knight,  cast  him  down,  he  laughs 
Saying,  his  knights  are  better  men  than  he — 
Yet  in  this  heathen  war  the  fire  of  God 
Fills  him ;  I  never  saw  his  like ;  there  lives 
No  greater  leader." 

While  he  utter'd  this, 
Low  to  her  own  heart  said  the  lily  maid, 
"Save  your  great  self,  fair  lord;"  and  when  he  fell 
From  talk  of  war  to  traits  of  pleasantry — 
Being  mirthful  he  but  in  a  stately  kind — 
She  still  took  note  that  when  the  living  smile 
Died  from  his  lips,  across  him  came  a  cloud 
Of  melancholy  severe,  from  which  again, 
Whenever  in  her  hovering  to  and  fro 
The  lily  maid  had  striven  to  make  him  cheer, 
There  brake  a  sudden-beaming  tenderness 
Of  manners  and  of  nature:  and  she  thought 
That  all  was  nature,  all,  perchance,  for  her. 
And  all  night  long  his  face  before  her  lived, 
As  when  a  painter,  poring  on  a  face, 
Divinely  thro'  all  hindrance  finds  the  man 
Behind  it,  and  so  paints  him  that  his  face, 
The  shape  and  color  of  a  mind  and  life, 
Lives  for  his  children,  ever  at  its  best 
And  fullest ;  so  the  face  before  her  lived, 
Dark-splendid,  speaking  in  the  silence,  full 
Of  noble  things,  and  held  her  from  her  sleep. 
Till  rathe  she  rose,  half-cheated  in  the  thought 


She  needs  must  bid  farewell  to  sweet  Lavaine. 

First  as  in  fear,  step  after  step,  she  stole, 

Down  the  long  tower-stairs,  hesitating : 

Anon,  she  heard  Sir  Lancelot  cry  in  the  court, 

"  This  shield,  my  friend,  where  is  it?"  and  Lavaine 

Past  inward,  as  she  came  from  out  the  tower. 

There  to  his  proud  horse  Lancelot  tnrn'd,  and  smooth'd 

The  glossy  shoulder,  humming  to  himself. 

Half-envious  of  the  flattering  hand,  she  drew 

Nearer  and  stood.    He  look'd,  and  more  amazed 

Than  if  seven  men  had  set  upon  him,  saw 

The  maiden  standing  in  the  dewy  light. 

He  had  not  dreamed  she  was  so  beautiful. 

Then  came  on  him  a  sort  of  sacred  fear, 

For  silent,  tho'  he  greeted  her,  she  stood 

Rapt  on  his  face  as  if  it  were  a  God's. 

Suddenly  flashed  on  her  a  wild  desire, 

That  he  should  wear  her  favor  at  the  tilt 

She  braved  a  riotous  heart  in  asking  for  it. 

"Fair  lord,  whose  name  I  know  not — noble  it  is, 

I  well  believe,  the  noblest — will  you  wear 

My  favor  at  this  tourney?"    "Nay,"  said  he, 

"  Fair  lady,  since  I  never  yet  have  worn 

Favor  of  any  lady  in  the  lists. 

Such  is  my  wont,  as  those  who  know  me,  know." 

"Yea,  so,"  she  answer'd;  "then  in  wearing  mine 

Needs  must  be  lesser  likelihood,  noble  lord, 

That  those  who  know  should  know  you."    And  he 

turn'd 

Her  counsel  up  and  down  within  his  mind, 
And  found  it  true,  and  answer'd,  "  True,  my  child. 
Well,  I  will  wear  it:  fetch  it  out  to  me: 
What  is  it?"  and  she  told  him  "a  red  sleeve 
Broider'd  with  pearls,"  and  brought  it:    then   ho 

bound 

Her  token  on  his  helmet,  with  a  smile 
Saying,  "I  never  yet  have  done  so  much 
For  any  maiden  living,"  and  the  blood 
Sprang  to  her  face,  and  fill'd  her  with  delight ; 
Bnt  left  her  all  the  paler,  when  Lavaine 
Returning  brought  the  yet  nnblazon'd  shield, 
His  brother's ;  which  he  gave  to  Lancelot, 
Who  parted  with  his  own  to  fair  Elaine  ; 
"Do  me  this  grace,  my  child,  to  have  my  shield 
In  keeping  till  I  come."    "  A  grace  to  me," 
She  answer'd,  "twice  to-day.    I  am  your  Squire." 
Whereat  Lavaine  said  laughing,  "  Lily  maid, 
For  fear  our  people  call  you  lily  maid 
In  earnest,  let  me  bring  your  color  back; 
Once,  twice,  and  thrice  :  now  get  you  hence  to  bed:" 
So  kiss'd  her.  and  Sir  Lancelot  his  own  hand, 
And  thus  they  mov'd  away :  she  stay'd  a  minute, 
Then  made  a  sudden  step  to  the  gate,  and  there — 
Her  bright  hair  blown  about  the  serious  face 
Yet  rosy-kindled  with  her  brother's  kiss- 
Paused  in  the  gateway,  standing  by  the  shield 
In  silence,  while  she'  watch'd  their  arms  far  off 
Sparkle,  until  they  dipt  below  the  downs. 
Then  to  her  tower  she  climb'd,  and  took  the  shield. 
There  kept  it,  and  so  lived  in  fantasy. 

Meanwhile  the  new  companions  past  away 
Far  o'er  the  long  backs  of  the  bushless  downs, 
To  where  Sir  Lancelot  knew  there  lived  a  knight 
Not  far  from  Camelot,  now  for  forty  years 
A  hermit,  who  had  pray'd.  labor'd  and  pray'd 
And  ever  laboring  had  scoop'd  himself 
In  the  white  rock  a  chapel  and  a  hall 
On  massive  columns,  like  a  shorecliff  cave, 
And  cells  and  chambers :  all  were  fair  and  dry , 
The  green  light  from  the  meadows  underneath 
Struck  up  and  lived  along  the  milky  roofs ; 
And  in  the  meadows  tremulous  aspen-trees 
And  poplars  made  a  noise  of  falling  showers, 
And  thither  wending  there  that  night  they  bode. 

But  when  the  next  day  broke  from  underground, 
And  shot  red  fire  and  shadows  thro'  the  cave, 


174 


ELAINE. 


They  rose,  heard  mass,  broke  fast,  aud  rode  away  : 
Then  Lancelot  saying,  "  Hear,  but  hold  my  name 
Hidden,  you  ride  with  Lancelot  of  the  Lake," 
Abash'd  Lavaine,  whose 'instant  reverence, 
Dearer  to  true  young  hearts  than  their  own  praise, 
But  left  him  leave  to  stammer,  "  Is  it  indeed  ?" 
And  after  muttering  "the  great  Lancelot" 
At  last  he  got  his  breath  and  answer'd,  "One, 
One  have  I  seen — that  other,  our  liege  lord, 
The  dread  Peudragou,  Britain's  king  of  kings, 
Of  whom  the  people  talk  mysteriously, 
He  will  be  there — then  were  I  stricken  blind 
That  minute,  I  might  say  that  I  had  seen." 

So  spake  Lavaine,  and  when  they  reach'd  the  lists 
By  Camelot  in  the  meadow,  let  his  eyes 
Run  thro'  the  peopled  gallery  which  half  round 
Lay  like  a  rainbow  fall'n  upon  the  grass, 
Until  they  found  the  clear-faced  King,  who  gat 
Robed  in  red  samite,  easily  to  be  known, 
Since  to  his  crown  the  golden  dragon  clung, 
And  down  his  robe  the  dragon  writhed  in  gold, 
And  from  the  carveu-work  behind  him  crept 
Two  dragons  gilded,  sloping  down  to  make 
Arms  for  his  chair,  while  all  the  rest  of  them 
Thro'  knots  and  loops  and  folds  innumerable 
Fled  ever  thro'  the  woodwork,  till  they  found 
The  new  design  wherein  they  lost  themselves, 
Yet  with  all  ease,  so  tender  was  the  work: 
And,  in  the  costly  canopy  o'er  him  set, 
Blazed  the  last  diamond  of  the  nameless  king. 

Then  Lancelot  answer'd  young  Lavaine  and  said, 
"Me  you  call  great:  mine  is  the  firmer  seat, 
The  truer  lance :  but  there  is  many  a  youth 
Now  crescent,  who  will  come  to  all  I  am 
And  overcome  it:  and  in  me  there  dwells 
No  greatness,  save  it  be  some  far-off  touch 
Of  greatness  to  know  well  I  am  not  great  : 
There  is  the  man."    And  Lavaiue  gaped  upon  him 
As  on  a  thing  miraculous,  and  anon 
The  trumpets  blew ;  and  then  did  either  side, 
They  that  assailed,  and  they  that  held  the  lists, 
Set  lance  in  rest,  strike  spur,  suddenly  move, 
Meet  in  the,  midst,  and  there  so  furiously 
Shock,  that  a  man  far-off  might  well  perceive, 
If  any  man  that  day  were  left  afield, 
The  hard  earth  shake,  and  a  low  thunder  of  arms. 
And  Lancelot  bode  a  little,  till  he  saw 
Which  were  the  weaker :  then  he  hnrl'd  into  it 
Against  the  stronger:  little  need  to  speak 
Of  Lancelot  in  his  glory:  King,  duke,  earl, 
Count,  baron— whom  he  smote,  he  overthrew, 

But  in  the  field  were  Lancelot's  kith  and  kin, 
Ranged  with  the  Table  Round  that  held  the  lists, 
Strong  men,  and  wrathful  that  a  stranger  knight 
Should  do  and  almost  overdo  the  deeds 
Of  Lancelot ;  and  one  said  to  the  other,  "  Lo ! 
What  is  he?    I  do  not  mean  the  force  alone, 
The  grace  and  versatility  of  the  man — 
Is  it  not  Lancelot !"    "  When  has  Lancelot  worn 
Favor  of  any  lady  in  the  lists  ? 
Not  such  his  wont,  as  we,  that  know  him,  know." 
"How  then?  who  then?"  a  fury  seized  on  them, 
A  fiery  family  passion  for  the  name 
Of  Lancelot,  and  a  glory  one  with  theirs. 
They  couch'd  their  spears  and  prick'd  their  steeds 

and  thus, 

Their  plumes  driv'n  backward  by  the  wind  they  made 
In  moving,  all  together  down  upon  him 
Bare,  as  a  wild  wave  in  the  wild  North-sea, 
Green-glimmering  toward  the  summit,  bears,  with  all 
Its  stormy  crests  that  smote  against  the  skies, 
Down  on  a  bark,  aud  overbears  the  bark, 
And  him  that  helms  it,  so  they  overbore 
Sir  Lancelot  and  his  charger,  and  a  spear 
Down-glancing  lamed  the  charger,  and  a  spear 


Prick'd  sharply  his  own  cuirass,  aud  the  head 
Pierced  thro'  his  side,  and  there  snapt,  and  remaiu'i 

Then  Sir  Lavaine  did  well  and  worshipfully ; 
He  bore  a  knight  of  old  repute  to  the  earth, 
Aud  brought  his  horse  to  Lancelot  where  he  lay. 
He  up  the  side,  sweating  with  agony,  got, 
But  thought  to  do  while  he  might  yet  endure, 
And  being  lustily  holpen  by  the  rest, 
His  party, — tho'  it  seemed  half-miracle 
To  those  he  fought  with — drave  his  kith  and  kin, 
And  all  the  Table  Round  that  held  the  lists, 
Back  to  the  barrier ;  then  the  heralds  blew 
Proclaiming  his  the  prize,  who  wore  the  sleeve 
1  Of  scarlet,  and  the  pearls ;  and  all  the  knights 
i  His  party,  cried  "Advance,  and  take  your  prize 
j  The  diamond;"  but  he  auswer'd,  "Diamond  me 
No  diamonds !  for  God's  love,  a  little  air ! 
i  Prize  me  no  prizes,  for  my  prize  is  death  ! 
Hence  will  I  and  I  charge  you,  follow  me  not." 

He  spoke,  and  vanish'd  suddenly  from  the  field 
With  young  Lavaiue  into  the  poplar  grove. 
There  from  his  charger  down  he  slid,  aud  sat, 
Gasping  to  Sir  Lavaiue,  "  Draw  the  lance-head  :n 
"  Ah,  my  sweet  lord,  Sir  Lancelot,"  said  Lavaine, 
"  I  dread  me,  if  I  draw  it,  you  will  die." 
But  he,  "I  die  already  with  it:  draw — 
Draw" — and  Lavaine  drew,  and  that  other  gave 
A  marvellous  great  shriek  and  ghastly  groan, 
And  half  his  blood  burst  forth,  aud  down  he  sank 
For  the  pure  pain,  and  wholly  swoou'd  away. 
Then  came  the  hermit  out  and  bare  him  in, 
There  stanch'd  his  wound ;  and  there,  iu  daily  doubt 
Whether  to  live  or  die,  for  many  a  week 
Hid  from  the  wide  world's  rumor  by  the  grove 
Of  poplars  with  their  noise  of  falling  showers, 
Anjd  ever-tremulous  aspen-trees,  he  lay. 

But  on  that  day  when  Lancelot  fled  the  lists, 
His  party,  knights  of  utmost  North  and  West, 
Lords  of  waste  marches,  kings  of  desolate  isles, 
Came  round  their  great  Peudragon,  saying  to  him, 
"  Lo,  Sire,  our  knight  thro'  whom  we  won  the  day 
Hath  gone  sore  wounded,  and  hath  left  his  prize 
Vutaken,  crying  that  his  prize  is  death." 
"Heaven  hinder,"  said  the  King,  "  that  such  an  one, 
So  great  a  knight  as  we  have  seen  to-day — 
He  seem'd  to  me  another  Lancelot- 
Yea,  twenty  times  I  thought  him  Lancelot — 
He  must  not  pass  uncared  for.    Gawain,  rise, 
My  nephew,  aud  ride  forth  and  find  the  knight. 
Wounded  and  wearied,  needs  must  he  be  near. 
I  charge  you  that  you  get  at  once  to  horse. 
And,  knights  aud  kings,  there  breathes  not  one  of 

you 

Will  deem  (his  prize  of  ours  is  rashly  given  : 
His  prowess  was  too  wondrous.    We  will  do  him 
No  customary  honor:  since  the  knight 
Came  not  to  us,  of  us  to  claim  the  prize, 
Ourselves  will  send  it  after.    Wherefore  take 
This  diamond,  and  deliver  it,  and  return, 
And  bring  us  what  he  is  and  how  he  fares, 
Aud  cease  not  from  your  quest,  until  you  find." 

So  saying  from  the  carven  flower  above, 
To  which  it  made  a  restless  heart,  he  took, 
And  gave,  the  diamond :  then  from  where  he  sat 
At  Arthur's  right,  with  smiling  face  arose, 
With  smiling  face  and  frowning  heart,  a  Prince 
In  the  mid  might  and  flourish  of  his  May, 
Gawain,  surnamed  The  Courteous,  fair  and  strong, 
And  after  Lancelot,  Tristram,  and  Geraint 
And  Lamorack,  a  good  knight,  but  therewithal 
Sir  Modred's  brother,  of  a  crafty  house, 
Nor  often  loyal  to  his  word,  and  now 
Wroth  that  the  king's  command  to  sally  forth 
In  quest  of  whom  he  knew  not,  made  him  leave 
The  banquet,  and  concourse  of  knights  and  kings. 


ELAINE. 


175 


So  all  in  wrath  he  got  to  horse  and  went; 
While  Arthur  to  the  banquet,  dark  in  mood, 
Past,  thinking,  "  Is  it  Lancelot  who  has  come 
Despite  the  wound  he  spake  of,  all  for  gain 
Of  glory,  and  has  added  wound  to  wound, 
And  ridd'u  away  to  die  ?"    So  fear'd  the  King, 
And  after  two  days'  tarriauce  there,  returu'd. 
Then  when  he  saw  the  Queen,  embracing,  ask'd, 
"Love,  are  you  yet  so  sick?"    "Nay,  lord, "she  paid. 
"  And  where  is  Lancelot  ?"    Then  the  Queen  amazed, 
"  Was  he  not  with  you?  won  he  not  your  prize?" 
"Nay,  but  one  like  him."    "Why  that  like  was  he." 
And  when  the  King  demanded  how  she  knew, 
Said,  "Lord,  no  sooner  had  you  parted  from  us, 
Than  Lancelot  told  me  of  a  common  talk 
That  men  went  down  before  his  spear  at  a  touch, 
But  knowing  he  was  Lancelot;  his  great  name 
Conquer'd ;  and  therefore  would  he  hide  his  name 
From  all  men,  e'en  the  king,  and  to  this  end 
Had  made  the  pretext  of  a  hindering  wound, 
That  he  might  joust  unknown  of  all,  and  learn 
If  his  old  prowess  were  iu  aught  decay'd : 
And  added,  'Our  true  Arthur,  when  he  learns, 
Will  well  allow  my  pretext,  as  for  gain 
Of  purer  glory.' " 

Then  replied  the  King: 
"  Far  lovelier  in  our  Lancelot  had  it  been, 
In  lien  of  idly  dallying  with  the  truth,  . 
To  have  trusted  me  as  he  has  trusted  you. 
Surely  his  king  and  most  familiar  friend 
Might  well  have  kept  his  secret.    True,  indeed, 
Albeit  I  know  my  knights  fantastical, 
So  flue  a  fear  in  our  large  Lancelot 
Must  needs  have  moved  my  laughter:  now  remains 
But  little  cause  for  laughter:  his  own  kin — 
111  news,  my  Queen,  for  all  who  love  him,  these ! 
His  kith  and  kin,  not  knowing,  set  upon  him; 
So  that  he  went  sore  wounded  from  the  field: 
Yet  good  news  too:  for  goodly  hopes  are  mine 
That  Lancelot  is  no  more  a  lonely  heart. 
He  wore,  against  his  wont,  upon  his  helm 
A  sleeve  of  scarlet,  broidered  with  great  pearls, 
Some  gentle  maiden's  gift." 

"  Yea,  lord,"  she  said, 

"  Your  hopes  are  mine,"  and  saying  that  she  choked, 
And  sharply  turu'd  about  to  hide  her  face, 
Moved  to  her  chamber,  and  there  flung  herself 
Down  on  the  great  King's  couch,  and  writhed  upon 

it, 

And  clench'd  her  fingers  till  they  bit  the  palm, 
And  shriek'd  out  "  traitor  "  to  the  unhearfng  wall, 
Then  flash'd  into  wild  tears,  and  rose  again, 
And  moved  about  her  palace,  proud  and  pale. 

Gawain  the  while  thro'  all  the  region  round 
Rode  with  his  diamond,  wearied  of  the  quest, 
Touch'd  at  all  points,  except  the  poplar  grove, 
And  came  at  last,  tho'  late,  to  Astolat : 
Whom  glittering  in  enamell'd  arms  the  maid 
Glanced  at,  and  cried  "What  news  from  Camelot, 

lord? 
What  of  the  knight  with  the  red  sleeve?"     "He 

won." 

"I  knew  it,"  she  said.    "But  parted  from  the  jousts 
Hurt  in  the  side,"  whereat  she  caught  her  breath. 
Thro'  her  own  side  she  felt  the  sharp  lance  go : 
Thereon  she  smote  her  hand  :  wellnigh  she  swoon'd: 
And  while  he  gazed  wonderingly  at  her,  came 
The  lord  of  Astolat  out,  to  whom  the  Prince 
Reported  who  he  was,  and  on  what  quest 
Sent,  that  he  bore  the  prize  and  could  not  find 
The  victor,  but  had  ridden  wildly  round 
To  seek  him,  and  was  wearied  of  the  search. 
To  whom  the  lord  of  Astolat,  "Bide  with  us, 
And  ride  no  longer  wildly,  noble  Prince ! 
Here  was  the  knight,  and  here  he  left  a  shield ; 
This  will  he  send  or  come  for :  furthermore 
Our  son  is  with  him ;  we  shall  hear  anon, 


Needs  must  we  hear."    To  this  the  courteous  Princ* 

Accorded  with  his  wonted  courtesy, 

Courtesy  with  a  touch  of  traitor  in  it, 

And  stay'd ;  and  cast  his  eyes  on  fair  Elaine : 

Where  could  be  found  face  daintier?  then  her  shape 

From  forehead  down  to  foot  perfect— again 

From  foot  to  forehead  exquisitely  turu'd: 

"Well— if  I  bide,  lo '.  this  wild  flower  for  me!" 

And  oft  they  met  among  the  garden  yews, 

And  there  he  set  himself  to  play  upon  her 

With  sallying  wit,  free  flashes  from  a  height 

Above  her,  graces  of  the  court,  and  songs, 

Sighs,  and  slow  smiles,  and  golden  eloquence 

And  amorous  adulation,  till  the  maid 

Rebell'd  against  it,  saying  to  him,  "Prince, 

O  loyal  nephew  of  our  noble  King, 

Why  ask  you  not  to  see  the  shield  he  left, 

Whence  you  might  learn  his  name?    Why  slight" 

your  King, 

And  lose  the  quest  he  sent  you  on,  and  prove 
No  surer  than  our  falcon  yesterday, 
Who  lost  the  hern  we  slipt  him  at,  and  went 
To  all  the  winds?"  "Nay,  by  mine  head,"  said  he, 
""I  lose  it,  as  we  lose  the  lark  in  heaven, 

0  damsel,  in  the  light  of  your  blue  eyes: 
But  an  you  will  it  let  me  see  the  shield." 

And  when  the  shield  was  brought,  and  Gawain  saw 
Sir  Lancelot's  azure  lions,  crowu'd  with  gold, 
Ramp  in  the  field,  he  smote  his  thigh  and  mock'd ; 
"Right  was  the  King!  our  Lancelot!  that  true  man  I" 
"And  right  was  I,"  she  auswer'd  merrily,  "I, 
Who  dream'd  my  knight  the  greatest  knight  of  all." 
"And  if  /  dream'd,"  said  Gawain,  "that  yon  love 
This  greatest  knight,  your  pardon  !  lo,  you  know  it  I 
Speak  therefore:  shall  I  waste  myself  in  vain?" 
Full  simple  was  her  answer:  "What  know  I? 
My  brethren  have  been  all  my  fellowship, 
And  I,  when  often  they  have  talked  of  love, 
Wish'd  it  had  been  my  mother,  for  they  talk'd, 
Meseem'd,  of  what  they  knew  not ;  so  myself — 

1  know  not  if  I  know  what  true  love  is, 
But  if  I  know,  then,  if  I  love  not  him, 
Methinks  there  is  none  other  I  can  love." 

"  Yea,  by  God's  death,"  said  he,  "you  love  him  well, 

But  would  not,  knew  you  what  all  others  know, 

And  whom  he  loves."    "So  be  it,"  cried  Elaine, 

And  lifted  her  fair  face  and  moved  away: 

But  he  pursued  her  calling,  "Stay  a  little! 

One  golden  minute's  grace:  he  wore  your  sleeve: 

Would  he  break  faith  with  one  I  may  not  name  ? 

Must  our  true  man  change  like  a  leaf  at  last? 

May  it  be  so  ?  why  then,  far  be  it  from  me 

To  cross  our  mighty  Lancelot  in  his  loves  ! 

And,  damsel,  for  I  deem  you  know  full  well 

Where  your  great  knight  is  hidden,  let  me  leave 

My  quest  -with  you ;  the  diamond  also :  here  ! 

For  if  yon  love,  it  will  be  sweet  to  give  it ; 

And  if  he  love,  it  will  be  sweet  to  have  it 

From  your  own  hand ;  and  whether  he  love  or  not, 

A  diamond  is  a  diamond.    Fare  you  well 

A  thousand  times  !— a  thousand  times  farewell  1 

Yet,  if  be  love,  and  his  love  hold,  we  two 

May  meet  at  court  hereafter;  there,  I  think, 

So  yon  will  learn  the  courtesies  of  the  court, 

We  two  shall  know  each  other." 

Then  he  gave, 

And  slightly  kiss'd  the  hand  to  which  he  gave, 
The  diamond,  and  all  wearied  of  the  quest 
Leapt  on  his  horse,  and  carolling  as  he  went 
A  true-love  ballad,  lightly  rode  away. 

Thence  to  the  court  he  past ;  there  told  the  King 
What  the  King  knew,  "Sir  Lancelot  is  the  knight." 
And  added,  "  Sire,  my  liege,  so  much  I  learnt ; 
But  fail'd  to  find  him  tho'  I  rode  all  round 
The  region:  but  I  lighted  on  the  maid, 
Whose  sleeve  he  wore;  she  loves  him;  and  to  her. 
Deeming  our  courtesy  is  the  truest  law, 


176 


ELAINE. 


I  gave  the  diamond :  she  will  render  it ; 

For  by  mine  head  she  knows  his  hiding-place." 

The  seldom-frowning  King  frown'd,  and  replied, 
"  Too  courteous  truly !  you  shall  go  no  more 
On  quest  of  mine,  seeing  that  you  forget 
Obedience  is  the  courtesy  due  to  kings." 

He  spake  and  parted.    Wroth  but  all  in  awe, 
For  twenty  strokes  of  the  blood,  without  a  word, 
Linger'd  that  other,  staring  after  him ; 
Then  shook  his  hair,  strode  oft',  and  buzz'd  abroad 
About  the  maid  of  Astolat,  and  her  love. 
Ali  ears  were  prick'd  at  once,  all  tongues  were  loosed  : 
"  The  maid  of  Astolat  loves  Sir  Lancelot, 
Sir  Lancelot  loves  the  maid  of  Astolat." 
Some  read  the  King's  face,  some  the  Queen's,  and  all 
Had  marvel  what  the  maid  might  be,  but  most 
Predoom'd  her  as  unworthy.    One  old  dame 
Came  suddenly  on  the  Queen  with  the  sharp  news. 
She,  that  had  heard  tbe  noise  of  it  before, 
But  sorrowing  Lancelot  should  have  stoop'd  so  low, 
Marr'd  her  friend's  point  with  pale  tranquillity. 
So  ran  the  ta!e  like  fire  about  the  court, 
Fire  in  dry  stubble  a  nine  days'  wonder  flared: 
Till  ev'n  the  knights  at  banquet  twice  or  thrice 
Forgot  to  drink  to  Lancelot  and  the  Queen, 
And  pledging  Lancelot  and  the  lily  maid 
Smiled  at  each  other,  while  the  Queen  who  sat 
With  lips  severely  placid  felt  the  knot 
Climb  in  her  throat,  and  with  her  feet  unseen 
Crnsh'd  the  wild  passion  out  against  the  floor 
Beneath  the  banquet,  where  the  meats  became 
As  wormwood,  and  she  hated  all  who  pledged. 

But  far  away  the  maid  in  Astolat, 
Her  guiltless  rival,  she  that  ever  kept 
The  one-day-seen  Sir  Lancelot  in  her  heart, 
Crept  to  her  father,  while  he  mused  alone, 
Sat  on  his  knee,  stroked  his  gray  face  and  said, 
"Father,  you  call  me  wilful,  and  the  fault 
Is  yours  who  let  me  have  my  will,  and  now, 
Sweet  father,  will  you  let  me  lose  my  wits?" 
"Nay,"  said  he,  "surely."    "Wherefore  let  me  hence," 
She  answer'd,  "and  find  out  our  dear  Lavaine." 
"You  will  not  lose  your  wits  for  dear  Lavaine: 
Bide,"  auswer'd  he:  "we  needs  must  hear  anon 
Of  him,  and  of  that  other."    "Ay,"  she  said, 
"And  of  that  other)  for  I  needs  must  hence 
And  find  that  other,  wheresoe'er  he  be, 
And  with  mine  own  hand  give  his  diamond  to  him, 
Lest  I  be  found  as  faithless  in  the  quest 
As  yon  proud  Prince  who  left  the  quest  to  me. 
Sweet  father,  I  behold  him  in  my  dreams 
Gaunt  as  it  were  the  skeleton  of  himself, 
Death-pale,  for  lack  of  gentle  maiden's  aid. 
The  gentler-born  the  maiden,  the  more  bound, 
My  father,  to  be  sweet  and  serviceable 
To  noble  knights  in  sickness,  as  you  know, 
When  these  have  worn  their  tokens:  let  me  hence 
I  pray  you."    Then  her  father  nodding  said, 
"Ay,  ay,  the  diamond:  wit  you  well,  my  child, 
Sight  fain  were  I  to  learn  this  knight  were  whole, 
Being  our  greatest:  yea,  and  you  must  give  it — 
And  sure  1  think  this  fruit  is  hung  too  high 
For  any  mouth  to  gape  for  save  a  Queen's — 
Nay,  I  mean  nothing:  so  then,  get  you  gone, 
Being  so  very  wilful  you  must  go." 

Lightly,  her  suit  aliow'd,  she  sllpt  away, 
And  while  she  made  her  ready  for  her  ride, 
Her  father's  latest  word  hnmm'd  in  her  ear, 
"Being  so  very  wilful  you  must  go," 
And  changed  itself  and  echoed  in  her  heart, 
•'Being  BO  very  wilful  you  must  die.'; 
But  she  was  happy  enough  and  shook  it  off, 
As  we  shake  off  the  bee  that  buzzes  at  us ; 
And  ui  her  heart  she  answerd  it  and  said. 


"What  matter,  so  I  help  him  back  to  life?" 

Then  far  away  with  good  Sir  Torre'  for  guide 

Rode  o'er  the  long  backs  of  the  bushless  downs 

To  Camelot,  and  before  the  city-gates 

Came  on  her  brother  with  a  happy  face 

Making  a  roan  horse  caper  and  curvet 

For  pleasure  all  about  a  field  of  flowers : 

Whom  when  she  saw,  "  Lavaine,"  she  cried,  "  Lavaine, 

How  fares  my  lord  Sir  Lancelot?"    He  amazed, 

"  Torre  and  Elaine  '.  why  here  ?    Sir  Lancelot ! 

How  know  you  my  lord's  name  is  Lancelot  ?" 

But  when  the  maid  had  told  him  all  her  tale, 

Then  turn'd  Sir  Torre,  and  being  in  his  moods 

Left  them,  and  under  the  strange-statued  gate, 

Where  Arthur's  wars  were  render'd  mystically, 

Past  up  the  still  rich  city  to  his  kin, 

His  own  far  blood,  which  dwelt  at  Camelot ; 

And  her  Lavaine  across  the  poplar  grove 

Led  to  the  caves:  there  first  she  saw  the  casque 

Of  Lancelot  on  the  wall :  her  scarlet  sleeve, 

Tho'  carved  and  cut,  and  half  the  pearls  away, 

Stream'd  from  it  still ;  and  in  her  heart  she  laugh' d, 

Because  he  had  not  loosed  it  from  his  helm, 

But  meant  once  more  perchance  to  tourney  in  it. 

And  when  they  gain'd  the  cell  in  which  he  slept, 

His  battle-writhen  arms  and  mighty  hands 

Lay  naked  on  the  wolfskin,  and  a  dream 

Of  dragging  down  his  enemy  made  them  move. 

Then  she  that  saw  him  lying  unsleek,  unshorn, 

Gaunt  as  it  were  the  skeleton  of  himself, 

Utter'd  a  little  tender  dolorous  cry. 

The  sound  not  wonted  in  a  place  so  still 

Woke  the  sick  knight,  and  while  he  roll'd  his  eyes 

Yet  blank  from  sleep,  she  started  to  him,  saying, 

"Your  prize  the  diamond  sent  you  by  the  King:" 

His  eyes  glisten'd:  she  fancied  "is  it  for  me?" 

And  when  the  maid  had  told  him  all  the  tale 

Of  King  and  Prince,  the  diamond  sent,  the  quest 

Assign'd  to  her  not  worthy  of  it,  she  knelt 

Full  lowly  by  the  corners  of  his  bed, 

And  laid  the  diamond  in  his  open  hand. 

Her  face  was  near,  and  as  we  kiss  the  child 

That  does  the  task  assign 'd,  he  kiss'd  her  face. 

At  once  she  slipt  like  water  to  the  floor. 

"Alas,"  he  said,  "your  ride  has  wearied  you. 

Rest  must  you  have."    "No  rest  for  me,"  she  said; 

"Nay,  for  near  you,  fair  lord,  I  am  at  re?t." 

What  might  she  mean  by  that  ?  his  large  black  eyes, 

Yet  larger  thro'  his  leanness,  dwelt  upon  her, 

Till  all  her  heart's  sad  secret  blazed  itself 

In  the  heart's  colors  on  her  simple  face; 

And  Lancelot  look'd  and  was  perplext  in  mind, 

And  being  weak  in  body  said  no  more ; 

But  did  not  love  the  color;  woman's  love, 

Save  one,  he  not  regarded,  and  so  turn'd 

Sighing,  and  feigu'd  a  sleep  until  he  slept. 

Then  rose  Elaine  and  glided  thro'  the  fields, 
And  past  beneath  the  wildly-sculptured  gates 
Far  up  the  dim  rich  city  to  her  kin ; 
There  bode  the  night :  but  woke  with  dawn,  and  pas» 
Down  thro'  the  dim  rich  city  to  the  fields, 
Thence  to  the  cave :  so  day  by  day  she  past 
In  either  twilight  ghost-like  to  and  fro 
Gliding,  and  every  day  she  tended  him, 
And  likewise  many  a  night:  and  Lancelot 
Would,  tho'  he  call'd  his  wound  a  little  hurt 
Whereof  he  should  be  quickly  whole,  at  times 
Brain-feverous  in  his  heat  and  agony,  seem 
Uncourteous,  even  he :  but  the  meek  maid 
Sweetly  forbore  him  ever,  being  to  him 
Meeker  than  any  child  to  a  rough  nurse, 
Milder  than  any  mother  to  a  sick  child, 
And  never  woman  yet,  since  man's  first  faii, 
Did  kindlier  unto  man,  but  her  deep  love 
Upbore  her;  till  the  hermit,  skill'd  in  all 
The  simples  and  the  science  of  that  time, 
Told  him  that  her  fine  care  had  saved  his  life. 


ELAINE. 


177 


And  the  sick  man  forgot  her  simple  blush, 

Would  call  her  friend  and  sister,  sweet  Elaine, 

Would  listen  for  her  coming  and  regret 

Her  parting  step,  and  held  her  tenderly, 

And  loved  her  with  all  love  except  the  love 

Of  man  and  woman  when  they  love  their  best 

Closest  and  sweetest,  and  had  died  the  death 

In  any  knightly  fashion  for  her  sake. 

And  peradventure  had  he  seen  her  first 

She  might  have  made  this  and  that  other  world 

Another  world  for  the  sick  man ;  but  now 

The  shackles  of  an  old  love  straiten'd  him, 

His  honor  rooted  in  dishonor  stood, 

And  faith  unfaithful  kept  him  falsely  true. 

Yet  the  great  knight  in  his  mid-sickness  made 
Full  many  a  holy  vow  and  pure  resolve. 
These,  as  but  l)orn  of  sickness,  could  not  live: 
For  when  the  blood  ran  lustier  in  him  again, 
Full  often  the  sweet  image  ol  one  face, 
Making  a  treacherous  quiet  in  his  heart, 
Dispersed  his  resolution  like  a  cloud. 
Then  if  the  maiden,  while  that  ghostly  grace 
Beam'd  on  his  fancy,  spoke,  he  answer'd  not, 
Or  short  and  coldly,  and  she  knew  right  well 
What  the  rough  sickness  meant,  but  what  this  meant 
She  knew  not,  and  the  sorrow  dimm'd  her  sight, 
And  drave  her  ere  her  time  across  the  fields 
Far  into  the  rich  city,  where  alone 
She  murmur'd,  "Vain,  in  vain:  it  cannot  be. 
He  will  not  love  me  :  how  then  ?  must  I  die  ?" 
Then  as  a  little  helpless  innocent  bird, 
That  has  but  one  plain  passage  of  few  notes, 
Will  sing  the  simple  passage  o'er  and  o'er 
For  all  an  April  morning,  till  the  ear 
Wearies  to  hear  it,  so  the  simple  maid 
Went  half  the  night  repeating,  "Must  I  die?" 
Aud  now  to  right  she  turn'd,  and  now  to  left, 
And  found  no  ease  in  turning  or  in  rest  : 
And  "him  or  death"  she  mntter'd,  "death  or  him," 
Ajaiii  and  like  a  burthen,  "him  or  death." 

But  when  Sir  Lancelot's  deadly  hurt  was  whole, 
To  Astalot  returning  rode  the  three. 
There  morn  by  morn,  arraying  her  sweet  self 
In  that  wherein  she  deem'd  she  look'd  her  best, 
She  came  before  Sir  Lancelot,  for  she  thought 
"If  I  be  loved,  these  are  my  festal  robee, 
If  not,  the  victim's  flowers  before  he  falL" 
And  Lancelot  ever  prest  upon  the  maid 
That  she  should  ask  some  goodly  gift  of  him     . 
For  her  own  self  or  hers;  "and  do  not  shun 
To  speak  the  wish  most  near  to  your  true  heart ; 
Such  service  have  you  done  me,  that  I  make 
My  will  of  yours,  and  Prince  and  Lord  am  I 
In  mine  own  land,  and  what  I  will  I  can." 
Then  like  a  ghost  she  lifted  up  her  face, 
But  like  a  ghost  without  the  power  to  speak. 
And  Lancelot  saw  that  she  withheld  her  wish, 
And  bode  among  them  yet  a  little  space, 
Till  he  should  learn  it;  and  one  morn  it  chanced 
He  found  her  in  among  the  garden  yews, 
And  said,  "  Delay  no  longer,  speak  your  wish, 
Seeing  I  must  go  to-day:"  then  out  she  brake: 
"Going?  and  we  shall  never  see  you  more. 
And  I  must  die  for  want  of  one  bold  word." 
"Speak:  that  I  live  to  hear,"  he  said,  "is  yours." 
Then  suddenly  and  passionately  she  spoke : 
"  I  have  gone  mad.    I  love  you :  let  me  die.'1 
"Ah  sister,"  answer'd  Lancelot,  "what  is  this?" 
And  innocently  extending  her  white  arms, 
"  Your  love,"  she  said,  "  your  love — to  be  your  wife." 
And  Lancelot  answer'd,  "Had  I  chos'n  to  wed, 
I  had  been  wedded  earlier,  sweet  Elaine : 
But  now  there  never  will  be  wife  of  mine." 
"No,  no,"  she  cried,  "I  care  not  to  be  wife, 
But  to  be  with  you  still,  to  see  your  face, 
To  serve  you,  and  to  follow  you  thw  the  world." 
12 


And  Lancelot  answer'd,  "Nay,  the  world,  the  world- 
All  ear  and  eye,  with  such  a  stupid  heart 
To  interpret  ear  and  eye,  and  such  a  tongue 
To  blare  its  own  interpretation — nay, 
Full  ill  then  should  I  quit  your  brother's  love, 
And  your  good  father's  kindness."    And  she  said, 
"  Not  to  be  with  you,  not  to  see  your  face- 
Alas  for  me  then,  my  good  days  are  done.'' 
"Nay,  noble  maid,"  he  answer'd,  "ten  times  nayl'' 
This  is  not  love :  but  love's  first  flash  in  youth, 
Most  common:  yea, I  know  it  of  mine  own  self- 
And  you  yourself  will  smile  at  your  own  self 
Hereafter,  when  you  yield  your  flower  of  life 
To  one  more  fitly  yours,  not  thrice  your  age : 
And  then  will  I,  for  true  you  are  and  sweet 
Beyond  mine  old  belief  in  womanhood, 
More  specially  should  your  good  knight  be  poor, 
Endow  you  with  broad  land  and  territory 
Even  to  the  half  my  realm  beyond  the  seas, 
So  that  would  make  you  happy;  furthermore, 
Ev'n  to  the  death,  as  tho'  you  were  my  blood. 
In  all  your  quarrels  will  I  be  your  knight 
This  will  I  do,  dear  damsel,  for  your  sake, 
And  more  than  this  I  cannot." 

While  he  spoke* 

She  neither  blush'd  nor  shook,  but  deathly-pale 
Stood  grasping  what  was  nearest,  then  replied, 
"Of  all  this  will  I  nothing;"  and  so  fell, 
And  thus  they  bore  her  swooning  to  her  tower. 

Then  spake,  to  whom  thro'  those  black  walls  of 

yew 

Their  talk  had  pierced,  her  father,  "  Ay,  a  flash, 
I  fear  me,  that  will  strike  my  blossom  dead. 
Too  courteous  are  you,  fair  Lord  Lancelot. 
I  pray  you,  use  some  rough  discourtesy 
To  blunt  or  break  her  passion." 

Lancelot  said, 

"  That  were  against  me ;  what  I  can  I  will :" 
And  there  that  day  remaiu'd,  and  toward  even 
Sent  for  his  shield:  full  meekly  rose  the  maid, 
Stript  off  the  case,  and  gave  the  naked  shield ; 
Then,  When  she  heard  his  horse  upon  the  stone:-, 
Unclasping  flung  the  casement  back,  and  look'd 
Down  on  his  helm,  from  which  her  sleeve  had  gone. 
And  Lancelot  knew  the  little  clinking  sonnd: 
And  she  by  tact  of  love  was  well  aware 
That  Lancelot  knew  that  she  was  looking  at  him. 
And  yet  he  glanced  not  up,  nor  waved  his  hand, 
Nor  bade  farewell,  but  sadly  rode  away. 
This  was  the  one  discourtesy  that  he  used. 

So  in  her  tower  alone  the  maiden  sat: 
His  very  shield  was  gone:  only  the  case, 
Her  own  poor  work,  her  empty  labor,  left. 
But  still  she  heard  him,  still  his  picture  form'd 
And  grew  between  her  and  the  pictured  walL 
Then  came  her  father,  saying  in  low  tones 
"Have  comfort,"  whom  she  greeted  quietly. 
Then  came  her  brethren  saying,  "Peace  to  thee, 
Sweet  sister,"  whom  she  answer'd  with  all  calm. 
But  when  they  left  her  to  herself  again, 
Death,  like  a  friend's  voice  from  a  distant  field 
Approaching  thro'  the  darkness,  called ;  the  owls 
Wailing  had  power  upon  her,  and  she  mixt 
Her  fancies  with  the  sallow-rifted  glooms 
Of  evening,  and  the  meanings  of  the  wind. 

And  in  those  days  she  made  a  little  song, 
And  call'd  her  song  "  The  Song  of  Love  and  Death/ 
And  sang  it:  sweetly  could  she  make  and  sing. 

"Sweet  is  true  love,  tho'  given  in  vain,  in  vain; 
And  sweet  is  death  who  puts  an  end  to  pain: 
I  know  not  which  is  sweeter,  no,  not  I. 

"  Love,  art  thou  sweet  ?  then  bitter  death  must  be 
Love,  thou  art  bitter ;  sweet  is  death  to  me. 
O  Love,  if  death  be  sweeter,  let  me  die. 


178 


ELAINE. 


"Sweet  Love,  that  seems  not  made  to  fade  away, 
Sweet  death,  that  seems  to  make  us  loveless  clay, 
I  know  not  which  is  sweeter,  no,  not  I. 

"  I  fain  would  follow  love,  if  that  conld  be ; 
I  needs  must  follow  death,  who  calls  for  me ; 
Call  and  I  follow,  I  follow !  let  me  die." 

High  with  the  last  line  scaled  her  voice,  and  this, 
All  in  a  flery  dawning  wild  with  wind 
That  shook  her  tower,  the  brothers  heard,  and  thought 
With  shuddering,  "  Hark  the  Phantom  of  the  house 
That  ever  shrieks  before  a  death,"  and  call'd 
The  father,  and  all  three  in  hurry  and  fear 
Ran  to  her,  and  lo !  the  blood-red  light  of  dawn 
Flared  on  her  face,  she  shrilling  "  Let  me  die !" 

As  when  we  dwell  upon  a  word  we  know 
Repeating,  till  the  word  we  know  so  well 
Becomes  a  wonder  and  we  know  not  why, 
So  dwelt  the  father  on  her  face  and  thought 
"Is  this  Elaine?"  till  back  the  maiden  fell, 
Then  gave  a  languid  hand  to  each,  and  lay, 
Speaking  a  still  good-morrow  with  her  eyes. 
At  last  she  said,  "  Sweet  brothers,  yesternight 
I  seem'd  a  curious  little  maid  again, 
As  happy  as  when  we  dwelt  among  the  woods, 
And  when  you  used  to  take  me  with  the  flood 
Up  the  great  river  in  the  boatman's  boat. 
Only  you  would  not  pass  beyond  the  cape 
That  has  the  poplar  on  it :  there  you  fist 
Your  limit,  oft  returning  with  the  tide. 
And  yet  I  cried  because  you  would  not  pass 
Beyond  it,  and  far  up  the  shining  flood 
Until  we  found  the  palace  of  the  king. 
And  yet  you  would  not;  but  this  night  I  dream'd 
That  I  was  all  alone  upon  the  flood, 
And  then  I  said,  "Now  shall  I  have  my  will:" 
And  there  I  woke,  but  still  the  wish  remain'd. 
So  let  me  hence  that  I  may  pass  at  last 
Beyond  the  poplar  and  far  up  the  flood, 
Until  I  find  the  palace  of  the  king. 
There  will  I  enter  in  among  them  all, 
And  no  man  there  will  dare  to  mock  at  me ; 
But  there  the  fine  Gawain  will  wonder  at  me, 
And  there  the  great  Sir  Lancelot  muse  at  me; 
Gawain,  who  bade  a  thousand  farewells  to  me, 
Lancelot,  who  coldly  went  nor  bade  me  one: 
And  there  the  King  will  know  me  and  my  love, 
And  there  the  Queen  herself  will  pity  me, 
And  all  the  gentle  court  will  welcome  me, 
And  after  my  long  voyage  I  shall  rest!" 

"Peace,"  said  her  father,  "O  my  child,  you  seem 
Light-headed,  for  what  force  is  yotirs  to  go, 
So  far,  being  sick  ?  and  wherefore  would  you  look 
On  this  proud  fellow  again,  who  scorns  us  all  ?" 

Then  the  rough  Torre  began  to  heave  and  move, 
And  bluster  into  stormy  sobs  and  say, 
"I  never  loved  him:  an  I  meet  with  him, 
J  care  not  howsoever  great  he  be, 
Then  will  I  strike  at  him  and  strike  him  down. 
Give  me  good  fortune,  I  will  strike  him  dead, 
For  this  discomfort  he  hath  done  the  house." 

To  which  the  gentle  sister  made  reply, 
"  Fret  not  yourself,  dear  brother,  nor  be  wroth, 
Seeing  it  is  no  more  Sir  Lancelot's  fault 
Not  to  love  me,  than  it  is  mine  to  love 
Him  of  all  men  who  seems  to  me  the  highest" 

"Highest?"  the  Father  answer'd,  echoing  "high- 
est." 

(He  meant  to  break  the  passion  in  her.)    "Nay, 
Daughter,  I  know  not  what  you  call  the  highest ; 
But  this  I  know,  for  all  the  people  know  it, 
•Ha  loves  the  Queen,  and  in  an  open  shame: 


And  she  returns  his  love  in  open  shame. 
If  this  be  high,  what  is  it  to  be  low?" 

Then  spake  the  lily  maid  of  Astolat : 
"Sweet  father,  all  too  faint  and  sick  am  I 
For  anger:  these  are  slanders:  never  yet 
Was  noble  man  but  made  ignoble  talk. 
He  makes  no  friend  who  never  made  a  foe. 
But  now  it  is  my  glory  to  have  loved 
One  peerless,  without  stain :  so  let  me  pass, 
My  father,  howsoe'er  I  seem  to  you, 
Not  all  unhappy,  having  loved  God's  best 
And  greatest,  tho'  my  love  had  no  return . 
Yet,  seeing  you  desire  your  child  to  live, 
Thanks,  but  you  work  against  your  own  desire; 
For  if  I  could  believe  the  things  you  say 
I  should  but  die  the  sooner :  wherefore  cease, 
Sweet  father,  and  bid  call  the  ghostly  man 
Hither,  and  let  me  shrive  me  clean,  and  die." 

So  when  the  ghostly  man  had  come  and  gone, 
She  with  a  face,  bright  as  for  sin  forgiven, 
Besought  Lavaiue  to  write  as  she  devised 
A  letter,  word  for  word ;  and  when  he  ask'd 
"Is  it  for  Lancelot,  is  it  for  my  dear  lord? 
Then  will  I  bear  it  gladly;"  she  replied, 
"For  Lancelot  and  the  Queen  and  all  the  world, 
But  I  myself  must  bear  it."    Then  he  wrote 
The  letter  she  devised ;  which  being  writ 
And  folded,  "O  sweet  father,  tender  and  true. 
Deny  me  not,"  she  said — "  you  never  yet 
Denied  my  fancies — this,  however  strange, 
My  latest:  lay  the  letter  in  my  hand 
A  little  ere  I  die,  and  close  the  hand 
Upon  it;  I  shall  guard  it  even  in  death. 
And  when  the  heat  is  gone  from  out  my  heart, 
Then  take  the  little  bed  on  which  I  died 
For  Lancelot's  love,  and  deck  it  like  the  Queen's 
For  richness,  and  me  also  like  the  Queen 
In  all  I  have  of  rich,  and  lay  me  on  it. 
And  let  there  be  prepared  a  chariot-bier 
To  take  me  to  the  river,  and  a  barge 
Be  ready  on  the  river,  clothed  in  black. 
I  go  in  state  to  court,  to  meet  the  Queen. 
There  surely  I  shall  speak  for  mine  own  self, 
And  none  of  yon  can  speak  for  me  so  well. 
And  therefore  let  our  dumb  old  man  alone 
Go  with  me,  he  can  steer  and  row,  and  he 
Will  guide  me  to  that  palace,  to  the  doors." 

She  ceased :  her  father  promised ;  whereupon 
She  grew  so  cheerful  that  they  deem'd  her  death 
Was  rather  in  the  fantasy  than  the  blood. 
But  ten  slow  mornings  past,  and  on  the  eleventh 
Her  father  laid  the  letter  in  her  hand, 
And  closed  the  hand  upon  it,  and  she  died. 
So  that  day  there  was  dole  in  Astolat. 

But  when  the  next  sun  brake  from  underground, 
Then,  those  two  brethren  slowly  with  bent  brows 
Accompanying,  the  sad  chariot-bier 
Past  like  a  shadow  thro'  the  field,  that  shone 
Full-summer,  to  that  stream  whereon  the  barge, 
Pall'd  all  its  length  in  blackest  samite,  lay. 
There  sat  the  life  long  creature  of  the  house, 
Loyal,  the  dumb  old  servitor,  on  deck, 
Winking  his  eyes,  and  twisted  all  his  face. 
So  those  two  brethren  from  the  chariot  took 
And  on  the  black  decks  laid  her  in  her  bed, 
Set  in  her  hand  a  lily,  o'er  her  hung 
The  silken  case  with  braided  blazonings, 
And  kiss'd  her  quiet  brows,  and  saying  to  her, 
"Sister,  farewell  forever,"  and  again, 
"  Farewell,  sweet  sister,"  parted  all  in  tears. 
Then  rose  the  dumb  old  servitor,  and  the  dead 
Steer'd  by  the  dumb  went  upward  with  the  flood- 
In  her  right  hand  the  lily,  in  her  left 
The  letter — all  her  bright  hair  streaming  down— 


ELAINE. 


170 


And  all  the  coverlid  was  cloth  of  gold 
Drawn  to  her  waist,  and  she  herself  in  white 
All  but  her  face,  and  that  clear-featured  face 
Was  lovely,  for  she  did  not  seem  as  dead 
But  fast  asleep,  and  lay  as  tho'  she  smiled. 

That  day  Sir  Lancelot  at  the  palace  craved 
Audience  of  Guinevere,  to  give  at  last 
The  price  of  half  a  realm,  his  costly  gift, 
Hard-won  and  hardly  won  with  bruise  and  blow, 
With  deaths  of  others,  and  almost  his  own, 
The  nine-years-fought-for  diamonds:  for  he  saw 
One  of  her  house,  and  sent  him  to  the  Queen 
Bearing  his  wish,  whereto  the  Queen  agreed 
With  such  and  so  unmoved  a  majesty 
She  might  have  seem'd  her  statue,  but  that  he, 
Low-droopiDg  till  he  wellnigh  kiss'd  her  feet 
For  loyal  awe,  saw  with  a  sidelong  eye 
The  shadow  of  a  piece  of  pointed  lace, 
In  the  Queen's  shadow,  vibrate  on  the  walls, 
And  parted,  laughing  in  his  courtly  heart. 

All  in  an  oriel  on  the  summer  side, 
Vine-clad,  of  Arthur's  palace  toward  the  stream, 
They  met,  and  Lancelot  kneeling  utter'd,  "  Queen, 
Lady,  my  liege,  in  whom  I  have  my  joy, 
Take,  what  I  had  not  won  except  for  yon, 
These  jewels,  and  make  me  happy,  making  them 
An  armlet  for  the  roundest  arm  on  earth, 
Or  necklace  for  a  neck  to  which  the  swan's 
Is  tawnier  than  her  cygnet's:  these  are  words: 
Your  beauty  is  your  beauty,  and  I  sin 
In  speaking,  yet  O  grant  my  worship  of  it 
Words,  as  we  grant  grief  tears.    Such  sin  in  words 
Perchance  we  both  can  pardon :  but,  my  Queen, 
I  hear  of  rumors  flying  thro'  your  court 
Our  bond,  as  not  the  bond  of  man  and  wife, 
Should  have  in  it  an  absoluter  trust 
To  make  up  that  defect:  let  rumors  be: 
When  did  not  rumors  fly?  these,  as  I  trust 
That  you  trust  me  in  your  own  nobleness, 
I  may  not  well  believe  that  you  believe." 

While  thus  he  spoke,  half  turned  away,  the  Queen 
Brake  from  the  vast  oriel-embowering  vine 
Leaf  after  leaf,  and  tore,  and  cast  them  off, 
Till  all  the  place  whereon  she  stood  was  green ; 
Then,  when  he  ceased,  in  one  cold  passive  hand 
Received  at  once  and  laid  aside  the  gems 
There  on  a  table  near  her,  and  replied: 

"It  may  be,  I  am  quicker  of  belief 
Than  you  believe  me,  Lancelot  of  the  Lake. 
Our  bond  is  not  the  bond  of  man  and  wife. 
This  good  is  in  it,  whatsoe'er  of  ill, 
It  can  be  broken  easier.    I  for  yon 
This  many  a  year  have  done  despite  and  wrong 
To  one  whom  ever  in  my  heart  of  hearts 
I  did  acknowledge  nobler.    What  are  these? 
Diamonds  for  me !  they  had  been  thrice  their  worth 
Being  your  gift,  had  yon  not  lost  your  own. 
To  loyal  hearts  the  value  of  all  gifts 
Must  vary  as  the  giver's.    Not  for  me ! 
For  her !  for  your  new  fancy.    Only  this 
Grant  me,  I  pray  you :  have  your  joys  apart. 
I  doubt  not  that  however  changed,  you  keep 
So  much  of  what  is  graceful :  and  myself 
Would  shun  to  break  those  bounds  of  courtesy 
la  which  as  Arthur's  queen  I  move  and  rule: 
So  cannot  speak  my  mind.    An  end  to  this ! 
A  strange  one !  yet  I  take  it  with  Amen. 
So  pray  yon,  add  my  diamonds  to  her  pearls ; 
Deck  her  with  these  ;  tell  her,  she  shines  me  down: 
An  armlet  for  an  arm  to  which  the  Queen's 
Is  haggard,  or  a  necklace  for  a  neck 
O  as  much  fairer— as  a  faith  once  fair 
Was  richer  than  these  diamonds — hers  not  mine — 
Nay,  by  the  mother  of  our  Lord  himself, 


Or  hers  or  mine,  mine  now  to  work  my  will — 
She  shall  not  have  them." 

Saying  which  she  seized, 
And,  thro'  the  casement  standing  wide  for  heat, 
Flung  them,  and  down  they  flash'd,  and  smote  the 

stream. 

Then  from  the  smitten  surface  flash'd  as  it  were, 
Diamonds  to  meet  them,  and  they  past  away. 
Then  while  Sir  Lancelot  leant,  in  half  disgust 
At  love,  life,  all  things,  on  the  window  ledge, 
Close  underneath  his  eyes,  and  right  across 
Where  these  had  fallen,  slowly  past  the  barge 
Whereon  the  lily  maid  of  Astolat 
Lay  smiling,  like  a  star  in  blackest  night. 

But  the  wild  Queen,  who  saw  not,  burst  away 
To  weep  and  wail  in  secret ;  and  the  barge 
On  to  the  palace-doorway  sliding,  paused. 
There  two  stood  arm'd,  and  kept  the  door ;  to  whom, 
All  up  the  marble  stair,  tier  over  tier, 
Were  added  mouths  that  gaped,  and  eyes  that  ask'd 
"What  is  it?"  but  that  oarsman's  haggard  face, 
As  hard  and  still  as  is  the  face  that  men 
Shape  to  their  fancy's  eye  from  broken  rocks 
On  some  cliff-side,  appall'd  them,  and  they  said, 
"  He  is  enchanted,  cannot  speak — and  she, 
Look  how  she  sleeps — the  Fairy  Queen,  so  fair! 
Yea,  but  how  pale !  what  are  they  ?  flesh  and  blood  ? 
Or  come  to  take  the  King  to  fairy  land? 
For  some  do  hold  our  Arthur  caunot  dje, 
But  that  he  passes  into  fairy  land." 

While  thus  they  babbled  of  the  King,  the  King 
Came  girt  with  knights :  then  turn'd  the  tongueless 

man 

From  the  half-face  to  the  full  eye,  and  rose 
And  pointed  to  the  damsel,  and  the  doors. 
So  Arthur  bade  the  meek  Sir  Percivale 
And  pure  Sir  Galahad  to  uplift  the  maid ; 
And  reverently  they  bore  her  into  hall. 
Then  came  the  fine  Gawaiu  and  worider'd  at  her, 
And  Lancelot  later  came  and  mused  at  her, 
At  last  the  Queen  herself  and  pitied  her: 
But  Arthur  spied  the  letter  in  her  hand, 
Stoopt,  took,  brake  seal,  and  read  it ;  this  was  all : 

"Most  noble  lord,  Sir  Lancelot  of  the  Lake, 
I,  sometimes  call'd  the  maid  of  Astolat, 
Come,  for  you  left  me  taking  no  farewell, 
Hither,  to  take  my  last  farewell  of  you. 
I  loved  yon,  and  my  love  had  no  return, 
And  therefore  my  true  love  has  been  my  death. 
And  therefore  to  our  lady  Guinevere, 
And  to  all  other  ladies,  I  make  moan. 
Pray  for  my  soul,  and  yield  me  burial. 
Pray  for  my  soul,  thou  too,  Sir  Lancelot, 
As  thou  art  a  knight  peerless." 

Thus  he  read, 

And  ever  in  the  reading  lords  and  dames 
Wept,  looking  often  from  his  face  who  read 
To  hers  which  lay  so  silent,  and  at  times, 
So  touch'd  were  they,  half-thinking  that  her  lips, 
Who  had  devised  the  letter,  moved  again. 

Then  freely  spoke  Sir  Lancelot  to  them  all: 
"My  lord  liege  Arthur,  and  all  ye  that  hear, 
Know  that  for  this  most  gentle  maiden's  death 
Right  heavy  am  I;  for  good  she  was  and  true, 
But  loved  me  with  a  love  beyond  all  love 
In  women,  whomsoever  I  have  known. 
Yet  to  be  loved  makes  not  to  love  again; 
Not  at  my  years,  however  it  hold  in  youth. 
I  swear  by  truth  and  knighthood  that  I  gave 
No  cause,  not  willingly,  for  such  a  love: 
To  this  I  call  my  friends  in  testimony, 
Her  brethren,  and  her  father,  who  himself 
Besought  me  to  be  plain  and  blunt,  and  use. 
To  break  her  passion,  some  discourtesy 


180 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


Against  my  nature :  what  I  could,  I  did. 

I  left  her  and  I  bade  her  no  farewell. 

Tho'  had  I  dreamt  the  damsel  would  have  died, 

I  might  have  put  my  wits  to  some  rough  use, 

And  help'd  her  from  herself." 

Then  said  the  Queen 

(Sea  was  her  wrath,  yet  working  after  storm), 
"You  might  at  least  have  done  her  so  much  grace, 
Fair  lord,  as  would  have  help'd  her  from  her  death." 
He  raised  his  head,  their  eyes  met  and  hers  fell, 
He  adding, 

"Queen,  she  would  not  be  content 
Save  that  I  wedded  her,  which  could  not  be. 
Then  might  she  follow  me  thro'  the  world,  she  ask'J  ; 
It  could  not  be.    I  told  her  that  her  love 
Was  but  the  flash  of  youth,  would  darken  down 
To  rise  hereafter  in  a  stiller  flame 
Toward  one  more  worthy  of  her— then  would  I, 
More  specially  were  he,  she  wedded,  poor, 
Estate  them  with  large  land  and  territory 
In  mine  own  realm  beyond  the  narrow  seas, 
To  keep  them  in  all  joyance :  more  than  this 
I  could  not ;  this  she  would  not,  and  she  died." 

He  pausing,  Arthur  answer'd,  "O  my  knight, 
It  will  be  to  your  worship,  as  my  knight, 
And  mine,  as  head  of  all  qur  Table  Round, 
To  see  that  she  be  buried  worshipfully." 

So  toward  that  shrine  which  then  in  all  the  realm 
Was  richest,  Arthur  leading,  slowly  went 
The  marshall'd  order  of  their  Table  Round, 
And  Lancelot  sad  beyond  his  wont,  to  see 
The  maiden  buried,  not  as  one  unknown, 
Nor  meanly,  but  with  gorgeous  obsequies, 
And  mass,  and  rolling  music,  like  a  Queen. 
And  when  the  knights  had  laid  her  comely  head 
Low  in  the  dust  of  half-forgotten  kings, 
Then  Arthur  spake  among  them,  ;'Let  her  tomb 
Be  costly,  and  her  image  thereupon. 
And  let  the  shield  of  Lancelot  at  her  feet 
Be  carven,  and  her  lily  in  her  hand. 
And  let  the  story  of  her  dolorous  voyage 
For  all  true  hearts  be  blazon'd  on  her  tomb 
In  letters  gold  and  azure !"  which  was  wrought 
Thereafter;  but  when  now  the  lords  and  dames 
And  people,  from  the  high  door  streaming,  brake 
Disorderly,  as  homeward  each,  the  Queen, 
Who  mark'd  Sir  Lancelot  where  he  moved  apart, 
Drew  near,  and  sigh'd  in  passing  "Lancelot, 
Forgive  me ;  mine  was  jealousy  in  love." 
He  answer'd  with  his  eyes  upon  the  ground, 
"  That  is  love's  curse  ;  pass  on,  my  Queen,  forgiven." 
But  Arthur  who  beheld  his  cloudy  brows 
Approach'd  him,  and  with  full  affection  flung 
One  arm  about  his  ne.ck,  and  spake  and  said : 

"Lancelot,  my  Lancelot,  thou  in  whom  I  have 
Most  joy  and  most  affiance,  for  I  know 
What  thou  hast  been  in  battle  by  my  side, 
And  many  a  time  have  watch'd  thee  at  the  tilt 
Strike  dovrn  the  lusty  and  long-practised  knight, 
And  let  the  younger  and  unskill'd  go  by 
To  win  his  honor  and  to  make  his  name, 
And  loved  thy  courtesies  and  thee,  a  man 
Made  to  be  loved; — but  now  I  would  to  God, 
For  the  wild  people  say  wild  things  of  thee, 
Thou   couldst  have   loved  this   maiden,  shaped,  it 

seems, 

By  God  for  thee  alone,  and  from  her  face, 
If  one  may  judge  the  living  by  the  dead, 
Delicately  pure  and  marvellously  fair, 
Who  might  have  brought  thee,  now  a  lonely  man 
Wifeless  and  heirless,  noble  issue,  sons 
Born  to  the  glory  of  thy  name  and  fame, 
My  knight,  the  great  Sir  Lancelot  of  the  Lake." 

Then  answer'd  Lancelot,  "Fair  she  was,  my  King, 
Pure,  as  you  ever  wish  your  knights  to  be. 


To  doubt  her  fairness  were  to  want  an  eye, 
To  doubt  her  pureness  were  to  want  a  heart, — 
Yea,  to  be  loved,  if  what  is  worthy  love 
Could  bind  him,  but  free  love  will  not  be  bound." 

"Free  love,  so  bound,  were  freGst,"  said  the  King 
"Let  love  be  free;  free  love  is  for  the  beat: 
And,  after  heaven,  on  our  dull  side  of  death, 
What  should  be  best,  if  not  so  pure  a  love 
Clothed  in  so  pure  a  loveliness  ?  yet  thee 
She  fail'd  to  bind,  tho'  being,  as  I  think, 
Unbound  as  yet,  and  gentle,  as  I  know." 

And  Lancelot  answer'd  nothing,  but  he  went, 
And  at  the  inrunning  of  a  little  brook 
Sat  by  the  river  in  a  cove  and  watch'd 
The  high  reed  wave,  and  lifted  up  his  eyes 
And  saw  the  barge  that  brought  her  moving  down, 
Far-off,  a  blot  upon  the  stream,  and  said 
Low  in  himself,  "Ah  simple  heart  and  sweet, 
You  loved  me,  damsel,  surely  with  a  love 
Far  tenderer  than  my  Queen's.     Pray  for  thy  soul? 
Ay,  that  will  I.    Farewell  too— now  at  last — 
Farewell,  fair  lily.    '  Jealousy  in  love  ?' 
Not  rather  dead  love's  harsh  heir,  jealous  pride  ? 
Queen,  if  I  grant  the  jealousy  as  of  love, 
May  not  your  crescent  fear  for  name  and  fame 
Speak,  as  it  waxes,  of  a  love  that  wanes  ? 
Why  did  the  King  dwell  on  my  name  to  me  ? 
Mine  own  name  shames  me,  seeming  a  reproach,    j 
Lancelot,  whom  the  Lady  of  the  lake 
Stole  from  his  mother — as  the  story  runs — 
She  chanted  snatches  of  mysterious  song 
Heard  on  the  winding  waters,  eve  and  morn 
She  kiss'd  me  saying  thou  art  fair,  my  child, 
As  a  king's  son,  and  often  in  her  arms 
She  bare  me,  pacing  on  the  dusky  mere. 
Would  she  had  drown'd  me  in  it,  where'er  it  be ! 
For  what  am  I?  what  profits  me  my  name 
Of  greatest  knight?    1  fought  for  it,  and  have  it- 
Pleasure  to  have  it,  none  ;  to  lose  it,  pain  : 
Now  grown  a  part  of  me:  but  what  use  in  it? 
To  make  men  worse  by  making  my  sin  known? 
Or  sin  seem  less,  the  sinner  seeming  great? 
Alas  for  Arthur's  greatest  knight,  a  man 
Not  after  Arthur's  heart !    I  needs  must  break 
These  bonds  that  so  defame  me:  not  without 
She  wills  it:  would  I,  if  she  will'd  it?  nay, 
Who  knows?  but  if  I  would  not,  then  may  God 
1  pray  him,  send  a  sudden  Angel  down 
To  seize  me  by  the  hair  and  bear  me  far, 
And  fling  me  deep  in  that  forgotten  mere, 
Among  the  tumbled  fragments  of  the  hills." 

So  groan'd  Sir  Lancelot  in  remorseful  pain, 
Not  knowing  he  should  die  a  holy  man. 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 

FROM  noiseful  arms,  and  acts  of  prowess  done 
In  tournament  or  tilt,  Sir  Percivale, 
Whom  Arthur  and  his  knighthood  call'd  The  Pnrs 
Had  pass'd  into  the  silent  life  of  prayer, 
Praise,  fast,  and  alms ;  and  leaving  for  the  cowl 
The  helmet  in  an  abbey  far  away 
From  Camelot,  there,  and  not  long  after,  died. 

And  one,  a  fellow-monk  among  the  rest, 
Ambrosiiis,  loved  him  much  beyond  the  rest, 
And  honor'd  him,  and  wrought  into  his  heart 
A  way  by  love  that  waken'd  love  within, 
To  answer  that  which  came:  and  as  they  sat 
Beneath  a  world-old  yew-tree,  darkening  half 
The  cloisters,  on  a  gustful  April  morn 
That  pnff'd  the  swaying  branches  into  smoke 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


181 


Above  them,  ere  the  Bummer  when  he  died, 
The  monk  Ambrosius  questiou'd  Percivale :  — 

"  O  brother,  I  have  seen  this  yew-tree  smoke, 
Spring  after  spring,  for  half  a  hundred  years: 
For  never  have  I  known  the  world  without, 
Nor  ever  strayed  beyond  the  pale :  but  thee, 
When  first  thou  earnest, —  such  a  courtesy 
Spake  thro'  the  limbs  and  in  the  voice,— I  knew 
For  one  of  those  who  eat  in  Arthur's  hall ; 
For  good  ye  are  and  bad,  and  like  to  coins, 
Some  true,  some  light,  but  every  one  of  you 
Stamp'd  with  the  image  of  the  king ;  and  now 
Tell  me,  what  drove  thee  from  the  Table  Round, 
My  brother?  was  it  earthly  passion  crost?" 

"Nay,"  said  the  knight;  "for  no   such  passion 

mine. 

But  the  sweet  vision  of  the  Holy  Grail 
Drove  me  from  all  vainglories,  rivalries, 
And  earthly  heats  that  spring  and  sparkle  out 
Among  us  in  the  jousts,  while  women  watch 
Who  wins,  who    falls;    and    waste    the    spiritual 

strength 
Within  us,  better  offer'd  up  to  Heaven." 

To  whom  the  monk :  "  The  Holy  Grail '.— I  trust 
We  are  green  in  Heaven's  eyes ;  but  here  too  much 
We  moulder, — as  to  things  without  I  mean, — 
Yet  one  of  your  own  knights,  a  guest  of  ours, 
Told  us  of  this  in  our  refectory, 
But  spake  with  such  a  sadness  and  so  low 
We  heard  not  half  of  what  he  said.    What  is  it  ? 
The  phantom  of  a  cup  that  comes  and  goes  ?" 

"  Nay,  monk !  what  phantom  ?"  answer'd  Percivale. 
"The  cup,  the  cup  itself,  from  which  our  Lord 
Drank  at  the  last  sad  supper  with  his  own. 
This,  from  the  blessed  land  of  Aromat — 
After  the  day  of  darkness,  when  the  dead 
Went  wandering  o'er  Moriah,  the  good  saint, 
Arimathaean  Joseph,  journeying  brought 
To  Glastonbury,  where  the  winter  thorn 
Blossoms  at  Christmas,  mindful  of  our  Lord. 
And  there  awhile  it  bode ;  and  if  a  man 
Could  touch  or  see  it,  he  was  heal'd  at  once, 
By  faith,  of  all  his  ills ;  but  then  the  times 
Grew  to  such  evil  that  the  Holy  cup 
Was  caught  away  to  Heaven  and  disappear'd." 

To  whom  the  monk:    "From  our  old  books  I 

know 

That  Joseph  came  of  old  to  Glastonbury, 
And  there  the  heathen  Prince,  Arviragus, 
Gave  him  an  isle  of  marsh  whereon  to  build ; 
And  there  he  built  with  wattles  from  the  marsh 
A  little  lonely  church  in  days  of  yore, 
For  so  they  say,  these  books  of  ours,  but  seem 
Mute  of  this  miracle,  far  as  I  have  read. 
But  who  first  saw  the  holy  thing  to-day?" 

"A  woman,"  answered  Percivale,  "a  nun, 
And  one  no  further  off  in  blood  from  me 
Than  sister ;  and  if  ever  holy  maid 
With  knees  of  adoration  wore  the  stone, 
A  holy  maid ;  tho'  never  maidsn  glow'd, 
But  that  was  in  her  earlier  maidenhood, 
With  such  a  fervent  flame  of  human  love, 
Which  being  rudely  blunted  glanced  and  shot 
Only  to  holy  things:  to  prayer  and  praise 
She  gave  herself,  to  fast  and  alms ;  and  yet, 
Nun  as  she  was,  the  scandal  of  the  Court, 
Sin  against  Arthur  and  the  Table  Round, 
And  the  strange  sound  of  an  adulterous  race 
Across  the  iron  grating  of  her  cell 
Beat,  and  she  pray'd  and  fasted  all  the  more. 

"And  he  to  whom  she  told  her  sins,  or  what 


Her  all  but  utter  whiteness  held  for  sin, 

A  man  wellnigh  a  hundred  winters  old, 

Spake  often  with  her  of  the  Holy  Grail, 

A  legend  handed  down  thro'  five  or  six, 

And  each  of  these  a  hundred  winters  old, 

From  our  Lord's  time :  and  when  King  Arthur  made 

His  Table  Round,  and  all  men's  hearts  became 

Clean  for  a  season,  surely  he  had  thought 

That  now  the  Holy  Grail  would  come  again ; 

But  sin  broke  out.    Ah,  Christ,  that  it  would  comt; 

And  heal  the  world  of  all  their  wickedness ! 

'  O  Father !'  asked  the  maiden,  '  might  it  come 

To  me  by  prayer  and  fasting  ?'    '  Nay,'  said  he, 

'  I  know  not,  for  thy  heart  is  pure  as  snow.' 

And  so  she  pray'd  and  fasted,  till  the  snn 

Shone,  and  the  wind  blew,  thro'  her,  and  I  thought 

She  might  have  risen  and  floated  when  I  saw  her. 

"For  on  a  day  she  sent  to  speak  with  me. 
And  when  she  came  to  speak,  behold  her  eyes 
Beyond  my  knowing  of  them,  beautiful, 
Beyond  all  knowing  of  them,  wonderful, 
Beautiful  in  the  light  of  holiness. 
And  '  O  my  brother,  Percivale,'  she  said, 
'  Sweet  brother,  I  have  seen  the  Holy  Grail : 
For,  waked  at  dead  of  night,  I  heard  a  sound 
As  of  a  silver  horn  from  o'er  the  hills 
Blown,  and  I  thought  it  is  not  Arthur's  use 
To  hunt  by  moonlight,  and  the  slender  sound 
As  from  a  distance  beyond  distance  grew 
Coming  upon  me, — O  never  harp  nor  horn, 
Nor  aught  we  blow  with  breath,  or  touch  with  hand, 
Was  like  that  music  as  it  came ;  and  then 
Stream'd  thro'  my  cell  a  cold  and  silver  beam, 
And  down  the  long  beam  stole  the  Holy  Grail, 
Rose-red  with  beatings  in  it,  as  if  alive, 
Till  all  the  white  walls  of  my  cell  were  dyed 
With  rosy  colors  leaping  ou  the  wall ; 
And  then  the  music  faded,  and  the  Grail 
Passed,  and  the  beam  decay'd,  and  from  the  wallg 
The  rosy  quiverings  died  into  the  night. 
So  now  the  Holy  Thing  is  here  again 
Among  us,  brother,  fast  thou  too  and  pray, 
And  tell  thy  brother  knights  to  fast  and  pray, 
That  so  perchance  the  vision  may  be  seen 
By  thee  and  those,  and  all  the  world  be  heal'd.1 

"  Then  leaving  the  pale  nun,  I  spake  of  this 
To  all  men ;  aud  myself  fasted  and  pray'd 
Always,  and  many  among  us  many  a  week 
Fasted  and  pray'd  even  to  the  uttermost, 
Expectant  of  the  wonder  that  would  be. 

"  And  one  there  was  among  us,  ever  moved 
Among  us  in  white  armor,  Galahad. 
'God  make  thee  good  as  thou  art  beautiful,' 
Said  Arthur,  when  he  dubb'd  him  knight ;  and  none, 
In  so  young  youth,  was  ever  made  a  knight 
Till  Galahad;  and  this  Galahad,  when  he  heard 
My  sister's  vision,  fill'd  me  with  amaze ; 
His  eyes  became  so  like  her  own,  they  seem'd 
Hers,  aud  himself  her  brother  more  than  I. 

"Sister  or  brother  none  had  he;  but  some 
Call1  d  him  a  son  of  Lancelot,  and  some  said 
Begotten  by  enchantment, — chatterers,  they, 
Like  birds  ot  passage  piping  up  and  down 
That  gape  for  flies, — we  know  not  whence  they  come , 
For  when  was  Lancelot  wanderingly  lewd? 

"  But  she,  the  wan,  sweet  maiden  shore  away 
Clean  from  her  forehead  all  that  wealth  of  hair 
Which  made  a  silken  mat-work  for  her  feet; 
And  out  of  this  she  plaited  broad  and  long 
A  strong  sword-belt,  and  wove  with  silver  thread 
And  crimson  in  the  belt  a  strange  device, 
A  crimson  grail  within  a  silver  beam ; 
And  saw  the  bright  boy-knight,  and  bound  it  on  him 


182 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


Saying,  'My  knight,  my  love,  my  knight  of  heaven,    i 
O  thou,  my  love,  whose  love  is  one  with  mine, 
I,  maiden,  round  thee,  maiden,  bind  my  belt. 
Go  forth,  for  thou  shalt  see  what  I  have  seen, 
And  break  thro'  all,  till  one  will  crown  thee  king 
Far  in  the  spiritual  city :'  and  as  she  spake 
She  sent  the  deathless  passion  in  her  eyes 
Thro'  him,  and  made  him  hers,  and  laid  her  mind 
On  him,  and  he  believed  in  her  belief. 

"Then  came  a  year  of  miracle:  O  brother, 
In  our  great  hall  there  stood  a  vacant  chair, 
Fashion'd  by  Merlin  ere  he  past  away, 
And  carven  with  strange  figures:  and  in  and  out 
The  figures,  like  a  serpent,  ran  a  scroll 
Of  letters  in  a  tongue  no  man  could  read. 
And  Merlin  call'd  it  'The  Siege  perilous,' 
Perilous  for  good  and  ill ;  '  for  there,'  he  said, 
'No  man  could  sit  but  he  should  lose  himself:' 
Arid  once  by  misadvertence  Merlin  sat 
In  his  own  chair,  and  so  was  lost ;  but  he, 
Galahad,  when  he  heard  of  Merlin's  doom, 
Cried,  'If  I  lose  myself  I  save  myself!' 

"Then  on  a  summer  night  it  came  to  pass, 
While  the  great  banquet  lay  along  the  hall, 
That  Galahad  would  sit  down  in  Merlin's  chair. 

"  And  all  at  once,  as  there  we  sat,  we  heard 
A  cracking  and  a  riving  of  the  roofs, 
And  rending,  and  a  blast,  and  overhead 
Thunder,  and  in  the  thunder  was  a  cry. 
And  in  the  blast  there  smote  along  the  hall 
A  beam  of  light  seven  times  more  clear  than  day : 
And  down  the  long  beam  stole  the  Holy  Grail 
All  over  cover'd  with  a  luminous  cloud, 
And  none  might  see  who  bare  it,  and  it  past. 
But  every  knight  beheld  his  fellow's  face 
As  in  a  glory,  and  all  the  knights  arose, 
And  staring  each  at  other  like  dumb  men 
Stood,  till  I  found  a  voice  and  sware  a  vow. 

"I  sware  a  vow  before  them  all,  that  I 
Because  I  had  not  seen  the  Grail,  would  ride 
A  twelvemonth  and  a  day  in  quest  of  it, 
Until  I  found  and  saw  it,  as  the  nun 
My  sister  saw  it ;  and  Galahad  sware  the  vow. 
And  good  Sir  Bors,  our  Lancelot's  cousin,  sware, 
And  Lancelot  sware,  and  many  among  the  knights, 
And  Gawain  sware,  and  louder  than  the  rest 

Then  spake  the  monk  Ambrosius,  asking  him, 
"What  said  the  king?    Did  Arthur  take  the  vow?" 

"Nay,  for,  my  lord,  (said  Pcrcivale,)  the  king 
Was  not  in  Hall :  for  early  that  same  day, 
'Scaped  thro'  a  cavern  from  a  bandit  hold, 
An  outraged  maiden  sprang  into  the  hall 
Crying  on  help ;  for  all  her  shining  hair 
Was  smear'd  with  earth,  and  either  milky  arm 
Red-rent  with  hooks  of  bramble,  and  all  she  wore 
Torn  as  a  sail,  that  leaves  the  rope,  is  torn 
In  tempest:  so  the  king  arose  and  went 
To  smoke  the  scandalous  hive  of  those  wild  bees 
That  made  such  honey  in  his  realm :  howbeit 
Some  little  of  this  marvel  he  too  saw, 
Returning  o'er  the  plain  that  then  began 
To  darken  under  Camelot;  whence  the  king 
Look'd  up,  calkig  aloud,  '  Lo  there  1  the  roofs 
Of  our  great  Ha>l  are  rolled  in  thunder-smoke ! 
Pray  Heaven  they  be  not  smitten  by  the  bolt.' 
For  dear  to  Arthur  was  that  hall  of  ours, 
As  having  there  so  oft  with  all  his  knights 
Feasted,  and  as  the  stateliest  under  heaven. 

"O  brother,  had  you  known  our  mighty  hall, 
Which  Merlin  built  for^  Arthur  long  ago  I 
For  all  the  sacred  Mount  of  Camelot, 
And  all  the  dim  rich  city,  roof  by  roof, 


Tower  after  tower,  spire  beyond  spire, 
By  grove,  and  garden-lawn,  and  rushing  brook, 
Climbs  to  the  mighty  hall  that  Merlin  built. 
And  four  great  zones  of  sculpture,  set  betwixt 
With  many  a  mystic  symbol,  gird  the  hall : 
And  in  the  lowest  beasts  are  slaying  men, 
And  in  the  second  men  are  slaying  beasts, 
And  on  the  third  are  warriors,  perfect  men, 
And  on  the  fourth  are  men  with  growing  wings, 
And  over  all  one  statue  in  the  mould 
Of  Arthur,  made  by  Merlin,  with  a  crown, 
And  peak'd  wings  pointed  to  the  Northern  Star. 
And  eastward  fronts  the  statue,  and  the  crown 
And  both  the  wings  are  made  of  gold,  and  flame 
At  sunrise  till  the  people  in  far  fields, 
Wasted  so  often  by  the  heathen  hordes, 
Behold  it,  crying,  'We  have  still  a  king.* 

"And,  brother,  had  you  known  our  hall  within, 
Broader  and  higher  than  any  in  all  the  lands ! 
Where  twelve  great  windows  blazon  Arthur's  wars, 
And  all  the  light  that  falls  upon  the  board 
Streams  thro'  the  twelve  great  battles  of  our  king. 
Nay,  one  there  is,  and  at  the  eastern  end, 
Wealthy  with  wandering  lines  of  mount  and  mere, 
Where  Arthur  finds  the  brand  Excalibur. 
And  also  one  to  the  west,  and  counter  to  it, 
And  blank :  and  who  shall  blazon  it  ?  when  and  how  ? 

0  then,  perchance,  when  all  our  wars  are  done, 
The  brand  Excalibur  will  be  cast  away. 

"So  to  this  hall  full  quickly  rode  the  king, 
In  horror  lest  the  work  by  Merlin  wrought, 
Dreamlike,  should  on  the  sudden  vanish,  wrapt 
In  unremorseful  folds  of  rolling  fire. 
And  in  he  rode,  and  up  I  glanced,  and  saw 
The  golden  dragon  sparkling  over  all: 
And  many  of  those  who  burnt  the  hold,  their  arms 
Hack'd,  and  their  foreheads  grimed  with  smoke,  and 

sear'd, 

Follow'd,  and  in  among  bright  faces;  ours 
Full  of  the  vision,  prest:  and  then  the  King 
Spake  to  me,  being  nearest,  'Percivale,' 
(Because  the  Hall  was  all  in  tumult — some 
Vowing,  and  some  protesting,)  '  what  is  this  ?' 

"  O  brother,  when  I  told  him  what  had  chanced, 
My  sister's  vision,  and  the  rest,  his  face 
Darken'd,  as  I  have  seen  it  more  than  once, 
When  some  brave  deed  seem'd  to  be  done  in  vain, 
Darken ;  and  '  Woe  is  me,  my  knights  !'  he  cried, 
'Had  I  been  here,  ye  had  not  sworn  the  vow.' 
Bold  was  mine  answer,  '  Had  thyself  been  here, 
My  king,  thou  wouldst  have  sworn.'     'Yea,  yea,' 

said  he, 
'  Art  thou  so  bold  and  hast  not  seen  the  grail  ?' 

" '  Nay,  Lord,  I  heard  the  sound,  I  saw  the  light, 
But  since  I  did  not  see  the  Holy  Thing, 

1  sware  a  vow  to  follow  it  till  I  saw.' 

"Then  when  he  asked  us,  knight  by  knight,  if  any 
Had  seen  it,  all  their  answers  were  as  one, 
'Nay,  Lord,  and  therefore  have  we  sworn  our  vows.' 

'"Lo  now,' said  Arthur,  'have  ye  seen  a  cloud? 
What  go  ye  into  the  wilderness  to  see?' 

"  Then  Galahad  on  the  sudden,  and  in  a  voice 
Shrilling  along  the  hall  to  Arthur,  call'd, 
'But  I,  Sir  Arthur,  saw  the  Holy  Grail, 
I  saw  the  Holy  Grail  and  heard  a  cry — 
O  Galahad,  and  O  Galahad,  follow  me.' 

"'Ah,  Galahad,  Galahad,'  said  the  King,  'for  such 
As  thou  art  is  the  vision,  not  for  these. 
Thy  holy  nun  and  thon  have  seen  a  sign; 
Holier  is  none,  my  Percivale,  than  she,— 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


183 


A.  sign  to  maim  this  Order  which  I  made. 

But  you  that  follow  but  the  leader's  bell' 

(Brother,  the  king  was  hard  upon  his  knights), 

•  Taliessin  is  our  fullest  throat  of  song, 

And  one  hath  sung,  and  all  the  dumb  will  sing. 

Lancelot  is  Lancelot,  and  hath  overborne 

Five  knights  at  once,  and  every  younger  knight, 

Unproveii,  holds  himself  as  Lancelot, 

Till,  overborne  by  one,  he  learns, —  and  ye, 

What  are  ye  f    Galahads,—  no,  nor  Percivales' 

(For  thus  it  pleased  the  king  to  range  me  close 

After  Sir  Galahad) ;  'nay,'  said  he,  'but  men 

With  strength  and  will  to  right  the  wrong'd,  of  power 

To  lay  the  sudden  heads  of  violence  flat, 

Knights  that  in  twelve  great  battles  splash'd  and  dyed 

The  strong  White  Horse  in  his  own  heathen  blood,— 

But  one  hath  seen,  and  all  the  blind  will  see. 

Go,  since  your  vows  are  sacred,  being  made, — 

Yet,  for  ye  know  the  cries  of  all  my  realm 

Pass  thro'  this  hall,  how  often,  O  my  knights, 

Your  places  being  vacant  at  my  side, 

The  chance  of  noble  deeds  will  come  and  go 

Unchallenged,  while  yon  follow  wandering  fires 

Lost  in  the  quagmire :  many  of  you,  yea  most, 

Return  no  more:  ye  think  I  show  myself 

Too  dark  a  prophet :  come  now,  let  us  meet 

The  morrow  morn  once  more  in  one  full  field 

Of  gracious  pastime,  that  once  more  the  kiug, 

Before  you  leave  him  for  this  quest,  may  count 

The  yet  unbroken  strength  of  all  his  knights, 

Rejoicing  in  that  Order  which  he  made.1 

"  So  when  the  sun  broke  nest  from  underground, 
All  the  great  table  of  our  Arthur  closed 
And  clash'd  in  such  a  tourney  and  so  full, 
So  many  lances  broken,— never  yet 
Had  Camelot  seen  the  like  since  Arthur  came. 
And  I  myself  and  Galahad,  for  a  strength 
Was  in  us  from  the  vision,  overthrew 
So  many  knights  that  all  the  people  cried, 
And  almost  burst  the  barriers  in  their  heat, 
Shouting  '  Sir  Galahad  and  Sir  Percivale !' 

"But    when    the    next    day  brake    from   under- 
ground,— 

O  brother,  had  you  known  our  Camelot, 
Built  by  old  kings,  age  after  age,  so  old 
The  king  himself  had  fears  that  it  would  fall, 
So  strange  and  rich,  and  dim;  for  where  the  roofs 
Totter'd  toward  each  other  in  the  sky 
Met  foreheads  all  along  the  street  of  those 
Who  watch'd  us  pass;   and  lower,  and  where  the 

long 

Rich  galleries,  lady-laden,  weigh'd  the  necks 
Of  dragons  clingjug  to  the  crazy  walls, 
Thicker  than  drops  from  thunder  showers  of  flowers 
Fell,  as  we  past ;  and  men  and  boys  astride 
On  wyvern,  lion,  dragon,  griffin,  swan, 
At  all  the  corners,  named  us  each  by  name, 
Calling  '  God  speed !'  but  in  the  street  below 
The  knights  and  ladies  wept,  and  rich  and  poor 
Wept,  and  the  king  himself  could  hardly  speak 
For  sorrow,  and  in  the  middle  street  the  queen, 
Who  rode  by  Lancelot,  wail'd  and  shriek'd  aloud, 
'This  madness  has  come  on  us  for  our  sins.' 
And  then  we  reach'd  the  weirdly  sculptured  gate, 
\Vhere  Arthur's  wars  were  render'd  mystically, 
And  thence  departed  every  one  his  way. 

"  And  I  was  lifted  up  in  heart,  and  thought 
7>f  all  my  late-shown  prowess  in  the  lists, 
How  my  strong  lance  had  beaten  down  the  knights, 
So  many  and  famous  names ;  and  never  yet 
Had  heaven  appear'd  so  blue,  nor  earth  so  green, 
For  all  my  blood  danced  in  me,  and  I  knew 
That  I  should  light  upon  the  Holy  Gvail. 

"Thereafter,  the  dark  warning  of  our  king, 


That  most  of  us  would  follow  wandering  fires, 

Came  like  a  driving  gloom  across  my  mind. 

Then  every  evil  word  I  had  spoken  once, 

And  every  evil  thought  I  had  thought  of  old, 

And  every  evil  deed  I  ever  did, 

Awoke  and  cried,  'This  quest  is  not  for  thee.' 

And  lifting  up  mine  eyes,  I  found  myself 

Alone,  and  in  a  laud  of  sand  and  thorns, 

And  I  was  thirsty  even  unto  death ; 

And  I,  too,  cried,  'This  quest  is  not  for  thee.' 

"And  on  I  rode,  and  when  I  thought  my  thirst 
Would  slay  me,  saw  deep  lawns,  and  then  a  brook, 
With  one  sharp  rapid,  where  the  crisping  white 
Play'd  ever  back  upon  the  sloping  wave, 
And  took  both  ear  and  eye;  and  o'er  the  brook 
Were  apple-trees,  and  apples  by  the  brook 
Fallen,  and  on  the  lawns,  'I  will  rest  here,' 
I  said,  '  I  am  not  worthy  of  the  quest ;' 
But  even  while  I  drank  the  brook,  and  ate 
The  goodly  apples,  all  these  things  at  once 
Fell  into  dust,  and  I  was  left  alone, 
And  thirsting,  in  a  land  of  sand  and  thorns. 

"  And  then  behold  a  woman  at  a  door 
Spinning,  and  fair  the  house  whereby  she  sat,- 
And  kind  the  woman's  eyes  and  innocent, 
And  all  her  bearing  gracious ;  and  she  rose 
Opening  her  arms  to  meet  me,  as  who  should  say, 
'Rest  here,'  but  when  I  touched  her,  lo !  she  too 
Fell  into  dust  and  nothing,  and  the  house 
Became  no  better  than  a  broken  shed, 
And  in  it  a  dead  babe ;  and  also  this 
Fell  into  dust,  and  I  was  left  alone. 

"And  on  I  rode,  and  greater  was  my  thirst 
Then  flash'd  a  yellow  gleam  across  the  world, 
And  where  it  smote  the  ploughshare  in  the  field, 
The  ploughman  left  his  ploughing,  and  fell  down 
Before  it;  where  it  glitter'd  on  her  pail, 
The  milkmaid  left  her  milking,  and  fell  down 
Before  it,  and  I  knew  not  why;  but  thought 
'  The  sun  is  rising,'  tho'  the  sun  had  risen. 
Then  was  I  ware  of  one  that  on  me  moved 
In  golden  armor,  with  a  crown  of  gold 
About  a  casque  all  jewels;  and  his  horse 
In  golden  armor  jewell'd  everywhere : 
And  on  the  splendor  came,  flashing  me  blind ; 
And  seem'd  to  me  the  Lord  of  all  the  world, 
Being  so  huge :  but  when  I  thought  he  meant 
To  crush  me,  moving  on  me,  lo !  he  too 
Opened  his  arms  to  embrace  me  as  he  came, 
And  up  I  went  and  touch'd  him,  and  he  too 
Fell  into  dust,  and  I  was  left  alone 
And  wearied  in  a  land  of  sand  and  thorns. 

"And  on  I  rode  and  found  a  mighty  hill, 
And  on  the  top  a  city  wail'd :  the  spires 
Prick'd  with  incredible  pinnacles  into  heaven. 
And  by  the  gateway  stirr'd  a  crowd ;  and  these 
Cried  to  me,  climbing,  '  Welcome,  Percivale ! 
Thou  mightiest  and  thou  purest  among  men !' 
And  glad  was  I  and  clomb,  but  found  at  top 
No  man,  nor  any  voice ;  and  thence  I  past 
Far  thro'  a  ruinous  city,  and  I  saw 
That  man  had  once  dwelt  there;  but  there  I  found 
Only  one  man  of  an  exceeding  age. 
'Where  is  that  goodly  company,' said  I, 
'  That  so  cried  upon  me  ?'  and  he  had 
Scarce  any  voice  to  answer,  and  yet  gasp'd 
'Whence  and  what  art  thou?'  and  even  as  he  spoke 
Fell  into  dust,  and  disappear'd,  and  I 
Was  left  alone  once  more,  and  cried,  in  grief, 
'  Lo,  if  I  find  the  Holy  Grail  itself, 
And  touch  it,  it  will  crumble  into  dust' 

"  And  thence  I  dropt  into  a  lowly  vale, 
Low  as  the  hill  was  high,  and  where  the  vale 


184 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


Was  lowest  found  a  chapel,  and  thereby 

A  holy  hermit  in  a  hermitage, 

To  whom  I  told  my  phantoms,  and  he  said: 

"  'O  son,  thou  hast  not  true  humility, 
The  highest  virtue,  mother  of  them  all ; 
For  wheu  the  Lord  of  all  things  made  Himself 
Naked  of  glory  for  His  mortal  change, 
"Take  thou  my  robe,"  ehe  said,  "for  all  is  thine," 
And  all  her  form  shone  forth  with  sudden  light 
So  that  the  angels  were  amazed,  and  she 
Follow'd  him  down,  and  like  a  flying  star 
Led  on  the  gray-hair'd  wisdom  of  the  East ; 
But  her  thou  hast  not  known :  for  what  is  this 
Thou  thoughtest  of  thy  prowess  and  thy  sins  1 
Thou  hast  not  lost  thyself  ta  save  thyself 
As  Galahad.'    When  the  hermit  made  an  end, 
In  silver  armor  suddenly  Galahad  shone 
Before  us,  and  against  the  chapel  door 
Laid  lance,  and  entered,  and  we  knelt  in  prayer. 
And  there  the  hermit  slaked  my  burning  thirst ; 
And  at  the  sacring  of  the  mass  I  saw 
The  holy  elements  alone ;  but  he 
'  Saw  ye  no  more  ?    I,  Galahad,  saw  the  Grail, 
The  Holy  Grail,  descend  upon  the  shrine: 
I  saw  the  fiery  face  as  of  a  child 
That  smote  itself  into  the  bread,  and  went, 
And  hither  am  I  come ;  and  never  yet 
Hath  what  thy  sister  taught  me  first  to  see, 
This  holy  thing,  fail'd  from  my  side,  nor  come 
Cover'd,  but  moving  with  me  night  and  day, 
Fainter  by  day,  but  always  in  the  night 
Blood-red,  and  sliding  down  the  blacken'd  marsh 
$lood-red,  and  on  the  naked  mountain  top 
Blood-red,  and  in  the  sleeping  mere  below 
Blood-red :  and  in  the  strength  of  this  I  rode 
Shattering  all  evil  customs  everywhere, 
And  past  thro'  Pagan  realms,  and  made  them  mine,' 
And  clash'd  with  Pagan  hordes,  and  bore  them  down, 
And  broke  thro'  all,  and  in  the  strength  of  this 
Come  victor:  but1  my  time  is  hard  at  hand, 
And  hence  I  go ;  and  one  will  crown  me  king 
Far  in  the  spiritual  city;  and  come  thou  too, 
For  thou  shalt  see  the  vision  when  I  go.' 

"  While  thus  he  spake,  his  eye,  dwelling  on  mine, 
Drew  me,  with  power  upon  me,  till  I  grew 
One  with  him,  to  believe  as  he  believed. 
Then  when  the  day  began  to  wane  we  went. 

"  Then  rose  a  hill  that  none  but  man  could  climb, 
Scarr'd  with  a  hundred  wintry  watercourses, — 
Storm  at  the  top,  and,  when  we  gain'd  it,  storm 
Round  us  and  death ;  for  every  moment  glanced 
His  silver  arms  and  gloom'd :  so  quick  and  thick 
The  lightnings  here  and  there  to  left  and  right 
Struck,  till  the  dry  old  trunks  about  us,  dead, 
Yea,  rotten  with  a  hundred  years  of  death, 
Sprang  into  fire:  and  at  the  base  we  found 
On  either  hand,  as  far  as  eye  could  see, 
A  great  black  swamp  and  of  an  evil  smell, 
Part  black,  part  whiten'd  with  the  bones  of  men, 
Not  to  be  crost  save  that  some  ancient  king 
Had  built  a  way,  where,  linked  with  many  a  bridge, 
A  thousand  piers  ran  into  the  Great  Sea. 
And  Galahad  fled  along  them  bridge  by  bridge, 
And  every  bridge  as  quickly  as  he  crost 
Sprang  into  fire  and  vanish'd,  tho'  I  yearn'd 
To  follow ;  and  thrice  above  him  all  the  heavens 
Open'd  and  blazed  with  thunder  such  as  seem'd 
Shoutings  of  all  the  sons  of  God :  and  first 
At  once  I  saw  him  far  on  the  great  sea, 
In  silver-shining  armor  starry-clear ; 
And  o'er  his  head  the  holy  vessel  hung 
Clothed  in  white  samite  or  a  luminous  cloud. 
And  with  exceeding  swiftness  ran  the  boat, 
If  boat  it  were,— I  saw  not  whence  it  came. 
And  when  the  heavens  open'd  and  blazed  again 


Roaring,  I  saw  him  like  a  silver  star, — 

And  had  he  set  the  sail,  or  had  the  boat 

Become  a  living  creature  clad  with  wings  ? 

And  o'er  his  head  the  holy  vessel  hung 

Redder  than  any  rose,  a  joy  to  me, 

For  now  I  knew  the  veil  had  been  withdrawn. 

Then  in  a  moment  when  they  blazed  again 

Opening,  I  saw  the  least  of  little  stars 

Down  on  the  waste,  and  straight  beyond  the  star 

I  saw  the  spiritual  city  and  all  her  spires 

And  gateways  in  a  glory  like  one  pearl, 

No  larger,  tho'  the  goal  of  all  the  saints, 

Strike  from,  the  sea ;  and  from  the  star  there  shot 

A  rose-red  sparkle  to  the  city,  and  there 

Dwelt,  and  I  knew  it  was  the  Holy  Grail, 

Which  never  eyes  on  earth  again  shall  see. 

Then  fell  the  floods  of  heaven  drowning  the  deep. 

And  how  my  feet  recross'd  the  deathful  ridge 

No  memory  in  me  lives ;  but  that  I  touch'd 

The  chapel-doors  at  dawn,  I  know;  and  thence 

Taking  my  war-horse  from  the  holy  man, 

Glad  that  no  phantom  vexed  me  more,  returu'd 

To  whence  I  came,  the  gate  of  Arthur's  wars." 

"  O  brother,"  ask'd  Ambrosius,  "  for  in  sooth 
These  ancient  books  —  and  they  would  win  thee  — 
Only  I  find  not  there  this  Holy  Grail,  [teem, 

With  miracles  and  man-els  like  to  these, 
Not  all  unlike ;  which  oftentime  I  read, 
Who  read  but  on  my  breviary  with  ease, 
Till  my  head  swims ;  and  then  go  forth  and  pass 
Down  to  the  little  thorpe  that  lies  so  close, 
And  almost  plaster'd  like  a  martin's  nest 
To  these  old  walls, —  and  mingle  with  our  folk; 
And  knowing  every  honest  face  of  theirs, 
As  well  as  ever  shepherd  knew  his  sheep, 
And  every  homely  secret  in  their  hearts, 
Delight  myself  with  gossip  and  old  wives, 
And  ills  and  aches,  and  teethings,  lyings-in, 
And  mirthful  sayings,  children  of  the  place, 
That  have  no  meaning  half  a  league  away  : 
Or  lulling  random  squabbles  when  they  rise, 
Chafferings  and  chatteriugs  at  the  market-cross, 
Rejoice,  small  man,  in  this  small  world  of  mine, 
Yea,  even  in  their  hens  and  in  their  eggs ; 

0  brother,  saving  this  Sir  Galahad 

Came  ye  on  none  but  phantoms  iu  your  qnest, 
No  man,  no  woman  ?" 

Then  Sir  Percivale : 

"All  men  to  one  so  bound  by  such  a  vow 
And  women  were  as  phantoms.    O  my  brother, 
Why  wilt  thon  ghame  me  to  confess  to  thee 
How  far  I  faltered  from  my  quest  and  vow  ? 
For  after  I  had  lain  so  many  nights 
A  bedmate  of  the  snail,  and  eft,  and  snake, 
In  grass  and  burdock,  I  was  changed  to  wan 
And  meagre,  and  the  vision  had  not  come. 
And  then  I  chanced  upon  a  goodly  town 
With  one  great  dwelling  in  the  middle  of  it ; 
Whither  I  made,  and  there  was  I  disarmed 
By  maidens  each  as  fair  as  any  flower: 
But  when  they  led  me  into  hall,  behold 
The  Princess  of  that  castle  was  the  one, 
Brother,  and  that  one  only,  who  had  ever 
Made  my  heart  leap ;  for  when  I  moved  of  old 
A  slender  page  about  her  father's  hall, 
And  she  a  slender  maiden,  all  my  heart 
Went  after  her  with  longing :  yet  we  twain 
Had  never  kiss'd  a  kiss,  or  vow'd  a  vow. 
And  now  I  came  upon  her  once  again, 
And  one  had  wedded  her,  and  he  was  dead. 
And  all  his  land  and  wealth  and  state  were  hers. 
And  while  I  tarried,  every  day  she  set 
A  banquet  richer  than  the  day  before 
By  me ;  for  all  her  longing  and  her  will 
Was  toward  me  as  of  old ;  till  one  fair  morn, 

1  walking  to  and  fro  beside  a  stream 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


185 


That  flash'd  across  her  orchard  underneath 

Her  castle  walls,  she  stole  upon  my  walk, 

And  calling  me  the  greatest  of  all  knights, 

Embraced  me,  and  so  kiss'd  me  the  first  time, 

And  gave  herself  and  all  her  wealth  to  me. 

Then  I  remember'd  Arthur's  warning  word, 

That  most  of  us  would  follow  wandering  fires, 

And  the  quest  faded  iu  my  heart.    Anon, 

The  heads  of  all  her  people  drew  to  me, 

With  supplication  both  of  knees  and  tongue. 

'We  have  heard  ofthee:  thou  art  our  greatest  knight : 

Our  Lady  says  it,  and  we  well  believe : 

Wed  thou  our  Lady,  and  rule  over  us, 

Aud  thou  shalt  be  as  Arthur  in  our  laud.' 

0  me,  my  brother !  but  one  night  my  vow 
Bilrut  me  within,  so  that  I  rose  and  fled, 

But  wail'd  and  wept,  and  hated  mine  own  self, 
And  ev'n  the  Holy  Quest,  and  all  but  her. 
Then  after  I  was  joiu'd  with  Galahad 
Cared  not  for  her,  nor  any  thing  upon  earth." 

Then  said  the  monk,  "  Poor  men,  when   yule  is 
Must  be  content  to  sit  by  little  fires.  [cold, 

And  this  am  I,  so  that  ye  care  for  me 
Ever  so  little ;  yea,  and  blest  be  Heaven 
That  brought  thee  here  to  this  poor  house  of  ours, 
Where  all  the  brethren  are  so  hard,  to  warm 
My  cold  heart  with  a  friend :  but  O  the  pity 
To  find  thine  own  first  love  once  more, — to  hold, 
Hold  her  a  wealthy  bride  within  thine  arms, 
Or  all  but  hold,  and  then — cast  her  aside, 
Foregoing  all  her  sweetness,  like  a  weed. 
For  we  that  want  the  warmth  of  double  life, 
We  that  are  plagued  with  dreams  of  something  sweet 
Beyond  all  sweetness  in  a  life  so  rich, — 
Ah,  blessed  Lord,  I  speak  too  earthly-wise, 
Seeing  I  never  stray'd  beyond  the  cell, 
But  live  like  an  old  badger  in  his  earth, 
With  earth  about  him  everywhere,  despite 
All  fast  and  penance.    Saw  ye  none  beside, 
None  of  your  knights  ?" 

"Yea  so,"  said  Percivale, 
"  One  ulght  my  pathway  swerving  east,  I  saw 
The  pelican  on  the  casque  of  our  Sir  Bors 
All  in  the  middle  of  the  rising  moon  : 
And  toward  him  spurr'd  and  hail'd  him,  and  he  me, 
And  each  made  joy  of  either ;  then  he  ask'd, 
'  Where  is  he  ?  hast  thou  seen  him — Lancelot  ?    Once,' 
Said  good  Sir  Bors,  '  he  dash'd  across  me— mad, 
And  maddening  what  he  rode ;  and  when  I  cried, 
'Ridest  thou  then  so  holly  on  a  quest 
So  holy?"  Lancelot  shouted,  "Stay  me  not! 

1  have  been  the  sluggard,  and  I  ride  apace, 
For  now  there  is  a  lion  in  the  way." 

So  vanish'd.' 

"Then  Sir  Bors  had  ridden  on 
Softly  and  sorrowing  for  our  Lancelot. 
Because  his  former  madness,  once  the  talk 
And  scandal  of  our  table,  had  returned ; 
For  Lancelot's  kith  and  Tun  adore  him  so 
That  ill  to  him  is  511  to  them ;  to  Bors 
Beyond  the  rest:  he  well  had  been  content 
Not  to  have  seen,  so  Lancelot  might  have  seen, 
The  holy  cup  of  healing  •  and,  indeed, 
Being  so  clouded  with  his  grief  and  love, 
Small  heart  was  his  after  the  holy  quest : 
If  God  would  send  the  vision,  well  :  if  not, 
The  Quest  and  he  were  in  the  hands  of  Heaven. 

"And  then,  with  small  adventure  met,  Sir  Bors 
Rode  to  the  lonest  tract  of  all  the  realm, 
And  found  a  people  there  among  their  crags, 
Our  race  and  blood,  a  remnant  that  were  left 
Paynim  amid  their  circles,  and  the  stones 
They  pitch  up  straight  to  heaven  :  and  their  wise  men 
Were  strong  in  that  old  magic  which  can  trace 


The  wandering  of  the  stars,  and  scoff'd  at  him, 
And  this  high  quest  as  at  a  simple  thing: 
Told  him  he  follow'd — almost  Arthur's  words — 
A  mocking  fire :  '  what  other  fire  than  he, 
Whereby  the  blood  beats,  and  the  blossom  blows, 
And  the  eea  rolls,  and  all  the  world  is  warm'd  ?' 
And  when  his  answer  chafed  them,  the  rough  crowd, 
Hearing  he  had  a  difference  with  their  priests, 
Seized  him,  and  bound  and  plunged  him  into  a  cell 
Of  great  piled  stones ;  and  lying  bounden  there 
In  darkness  thro'  innumerable  hours 
He  heard  the  hollow-ringing  heavens  sweep 
Over  him,  till  by  miracle — what  else  ? — 
Heavy  as  it  was,  a  great  stone  slipt  and  fell, 
Such  as  no  wind  could  move:  and  thro'  the  gap 
Glimmer'd  the  streaming  scud:  then  came  a  night 
Still  as  the  day  was  loud ;  and  thro'  the  gap 
The  seven  clear  stars  of  Arthur's  Table  Round, — 
For,  brother,  so  one  night,  because  they  roll 
Thro'  such  a  round  in  heaven,  we  named  the  stars. 
Rejoicing  in  ourselves  and  in  our  king, — 
And  these  like  bright  eyes  of  familiar  friends 
In  on  him  shone,  'And  then  to  me,  to  me,' 
Said  good  Sir  Bors,  '  beyond  all  hopes  of  mine, 
Who  scarce  had  pray'd  or  ask'd  it  for  myself, — 
Across  the  seven  clear  stars, — O  grace  to  me ! — 
In  color  like  the  fingers  of  a  hand 
Before  a  burning  taper,  the  sweet  Grail 
Glided  and  past,  and  close  upon  it  peal'd 
A  charp  quick  thunder:'   afterwards  a  maid 
Who  kept  our  holy  faith  among  her  kin 
In  secret,  entering,  loosed  and  let  him  go." 

To  whom  the  monk:  "And  I  remember  now 
That  pelican  on  the  casque:  Sir  Bors  it  was 
Who  spake  so  low  and  sadly  at  our  board ; 
And  mighty  reverent  at  our  grace  was  he: 
A  square-set  man  and  honest;  and  his  eyes, 
An  out-door  sign  of  all  the  warmth  within, 
Smiled  with  his  lips, — a  smile  beneath  a  cloud, 
But  Heaven  had  meant  it  for  a  sunny  one : 
Ay,  ay,  Sir  Bors,  who  else  ?  but  when  ye  reach'd 
The  city,  found  ye  all  your  knights  return'd, 
Or  was  there  sooth  in  Arthur's  prophecy  ? 
Tell  me,  and  what  said  each,  and  what  the  king." 

Then  answer'd  Percivale,  "And  that  can  I, 
Brother,  and  truly ;  since  the  living  words 
Of  so  great  men  as  Lancelot  and  our  king 
Pass  not  from  door  to  door  and  out  again, 
But  sit  within  the  house.    O,  when  we  reach'd 
The  city,  our  horses  stumbling  as  they  trode 
On  heaps  of  ruin,  hornless  unicorns, 
Crack'd  basilisks,  and  splinter'd  cockatrices, 
And  shatter'd  talbots,  which  had  left  the  stones 
Raw,  that  they  fell  from,  brought  us  to  the  hall. 

"And  there  sat  Arthur  on  the  dais-throne, 
And  those  that  had  gone  out  upon  the  Quest,— 
Wasted  and  worn,  and  but  a  tithe  of  them,— 
And  those  that  had  not,  stood  before  the  king. 
Who,  when  he  saw  me,  rose,  and  bade  me  hail, 
Saying,  *  A  welfare  in  thine  eye  reproves 
Onr  fear  of  some  disastrous  chance  for  thee 
On  hill,  or  plain,  at  sea,  or  flooding  ford. 
So  fierce  a  gale  made  havoc  here  of  late 
Among  the  strange  devices  of  our  kings ; 
Yea,  shook  this  newer,  stronger  hall  of  ours, 
And  from  the  statue  Merliu  moulded  for  us 
Half  wreuch'd  a  golden  wing;   but  now — the  quss* 
This  vision— hast  thou  seen  the  holy  cup, 
That  Joseph  brought  of  old  to  Glastonbury  ?' 

"So  when  I  told  him  all  thyself  hast  heard 
Ambrosius,  and  my  fresh  but  fixt  resolre 
To  pass  away  into  the  quiet  life, 
He  answer'd  not,  but,  sharply  turning,  ask'd 
Of  Gawain,  'Gawain,  was  this  quest  for  thee!' 


186 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


"  'Nay,  lord,'  said  Gawain,  'not  for  such  as  I. 
Therefore  I  communed  with  a  saintly  man, 
Who  made  me  sure  the  quest  was  not  for  me. 
For  I  was  much  awearied  of  the  quest. 
But  found  a  silk  pavilion  in  a  field, 
And  merry  maidens  in  it ;  and  then  this  gale 
Tore  my  pavilion  from  the  tenting-pin, 
And  blew  my  merry  maidens  all  about 
With  all  discomfort ;  yea,  and  but  for  this 
My  twelvemonth  and  a  day  were  pleasant  to  me.' 

"He  ceased;  and  Arthur  turn'd  to  whom  at  first 
He  saw  not,  for  Sir  Bora,  on  entering,  push'd 
Athwart  the  throng  to  Lancelot,  caught  his  hand, 
Held  it,  and  there,  half  hidden  by  him,  stood, 
Until  the  king  espied  him,  saying  to  him, 
'  Hail,  Bors !  if  ever  loyal  man  and  true 
Could  see  it,  thou  hast  seen  the  Grail,'  and  Bors, 
1  Ask  me  not,  for  I  may  not  speak  of  it, 
I  saw  it:'  and  the  tears  were  in  his  eyes. 

"  Then  there  remain'd  but  Lancelot,  for  the  rest 
Spake  but  of  sundry  perils  in  the  storm, 
Perhaps,  like  him  of  Cana  in  Holy  Writ, 
Our  Arthur  kept  his  best  until  the  last. 
'Thou,  too,  my  Lancelot,' ask'd  the  King,  'my  friend, 
Our  mightiest,  hath  this  quest  avail'd  for  thee  ?' 

"  '  Our  mightiest !'  answer'd  Lancelot,  with  a  groan, 
'  O  king !'  and  when  he  paused,  methought  I  spied 
A  dying  fire  of  madness  in  his  eyes, 
'  O  king,  my  friend,  if  friend  of  thine  I  be, 
Happier  are  those  that  welter  in  their  sin, 
Swine  in  the  mud,  that  cannot  see  for  slime, 
Slime  of  the  ditch ;— but  in  me  lived  a  sin 
So  strange,  of  such  a  kind,  that  all  of  pure, 
Noble,  and  knightly  in  me  twined  and  clung 
Bound  that  one  sin,  until  the  wholesome  flower 
And  poisonous  grew  together,  each  as  each, 
Not  to  be  pluck'd  asunder;  and  when  thy  knights 
Sware,  I  sware  with  them  only  in  the  hope 
That  could  I  touch  or  see  the  Holy  Grail 
They  might  be  pluck'd  asunder:  then  I  spake 
To  one  most  holy  saint,  who  wept  and  said 
That  save  they  could  be  pluck'd  asunder  all 
My  quest  were  but  in  vain ;  to  whom  I  vow'd 
That  I  would  work  according  as  he  will'd. 
And  forth  I  went,  and  while  I  yearn'd  and  strove 
To  tear  the  twain  asunder  in  my  heart, 
My  madness  came  upon  me  as  of  old 
And  whipt  me  into  waste  fields  far  away. 
There  was  I  beaten  down  by  little  men, 
Mean  knights,  to  whom  the  moving  of  my  sword 
And  shadow  of  my  spear  had  been  enow 
To  scare  them  from  me  once  ;  and  then  I  came 
All  in  my  folly  to  the  naked  Shore, 
Wide  flats  where  nothing  but  coarse  grasses  grew, 
But  such  a  blast,  my  king,  began  to  blow, 
So  loud  a  blast  along  the  shore  and  sea, 
Ye  could  not  hear  the  waters  for  the  blast, 
Tho'  heipt  in  mounds  and  ridges  all  the  sea 
Drove  like  a  cataract,  and  all  the  sand 
Swept  like  a  river,  and  the  clouded  heavens 
Were  shaken  with  the  motion  and  the  sound. 
And  blackening  in  the  sea-foam  sway'd  a  boat 
Half-swallow'd  in  it,  anchor'd  with  a  chain ; 
And  in  my  madness  to  myself  I  said, 
"I  will  embark  and  I  will  lose  myself, 
And  in  the  great  sea  wash  away  my  sin." 
I  burst  the  chain,  I  sprang  into  the  boat. 
Seven  days  I  drove  along  the  dreary  deep, 
And  with  me  drove  the  moon  and  all  the  stars ; 
And  the  wind  fell,  and  on  the  seventh  night 
I  heard  the  shingle  grinding  in  the  surge, 
And  felt  the  boat  shock  earth,  and  looking  up 
Behold  the  enchanted  towers  of  Carbonek. 
A  castle  like  a  rock  upon  a  rock, 
With  chasm-like  portals  open  to  the  sea> 


And  steps  that  met  the  breaker:  there  was  none 

Stood  near  it  but  a  lion  on  each  side, 

That  kept  the  entry,  and  the  moon  was  full. 

Then  from  the  boat  I  leapt,  and  up  the  stairs. 

There  drew  my  sword.    With  sudden-flaring  manes 

Those  two  great  beasts  rose  upright  like  a  man, 

Each  gript  a  shoulder,  and  I  stood  between, 

And,  when  I  would  have  smitten  them,  heard  a  voice, 

"Doubt  not,  go  forward  ;  if  thou  doubt,  the  beasts 

Will  tear  thee  piecemeal ;"  then  with  violence 

The  sword  was  dash'd  from  out  my  hand  and  felL 

And  up  into  the  sounding  hall  I  past, 

But  nothing  in  the  sounding  hall  I  saw, 

No  bench  nor  table,  painting  on  the  wall, 

Or  shield  of  knight ;  only  the  rounded  moon 

Thro'  the  tall  oriel  on  the  rolling  sea. 

But  always  in  the  quiet  house  I  heard, 

Clear  as  a  lark,  high  o'er  me  as  a  lark, 

A  sweet  voice  singing  in  the  topmost  tower 

To  the  eastward :  up  I  climbed  a  thousand  steps 

With  pain :  as  in  a  dream  I  seem'd  to  climb 

Forever:  at  the  last  I  reach'd  a  door, 

A  light  was  in  the  crannies,  and  I  heard 

"Glory  and  joy  and  honor  to  our  Lord 

And  to  the  Holy  Vessel  of  the  Grail." 

Then  in  my  madness  I  essay'd  the  door 

It  gave,  and  thro'  a  stormy  glare,  a  heat 

As  from  a  seven-times-heated  furnace,  I, 

Blasted  and  burnt,  and  blinded  as  I  was, 

With  such  a  fierceness  that  I  swoon'd  away. 

O,  yet  methought  I  saw  the  Holy  Grail, 

All  pall'd  in  crimson  samite,  and  around 

Great  angels,  awful  shapes,  and  wings  and  eyes. 

And  but  for  all  my  madness  and  my  sin, 

And  then  my  swooning,  I  had  sworn  I  saw 

That  which  I  saw;  but  what  I  saw  was  veil'd 

And  cover'd;  and  this  quest  was  not  for  me.1 

"So  speaking,  and  here  ceasing,  Lancelot  left 
The  hall  long  silent,  till  Sir  Gawain — nay, 
Brother,  I  need  not  tell  thee  foolish  words, — 
A  reckless  and  irreverent  kuight  was  he, 
Now  bolden'd  by  the  silence  of  his  king, — 
Well,  I  will  tell  thee:  'O  king,  my  liege,'  he  said, 
'  Hath  Gawain  fail'd  in  any  quest  of  thine  ? 
When  have  I  stinted  stroke  in  foughten  field? 
But  as  for  thine,  my  good  friend,  Percivale, 
Thy  holy  nun  and  thou  have  driven  men  mad, 
Yea,  made  our  mightiest  madder  than  our  least 
But  by  mine  eyes  and  by  mine  ears  I  swear, 
I  will  be  deafer  than  the  blue-eyed  cat, 
And  thrice  as  blind  as  any  noonday  owl, 
To  holy  virgins  in  their  ecstasies, 
Henceforward.1 

"  '  Deafer,'  said  the  blameless  Kingj 
'Gawain,  and  blinder  unto  holy  things 
Hope  not  to  make  thyself  by  idle  vows, 
Being  too  blind  to  have  desire  to  see. 
But  if  indeed  there  came  a  sign  from  heaven, 
Blessed  are  Bors,  Lancelot,  and  Percivale, 
For  these  have  seen  according  to  their  sight. 
For  every  fiery  prophet  in  old  times, 
And  all  the  sacred  madness  of  the  bard, 
When  God  made  music  thro'  them,  could  but  speafc 
His  music  by  the  framework  and  the  chord, 
And  as  ye  saw  it  ye  have  spoken  truth. 

'"Nay— but  thou  errest,  Lancelot:  never  yet 
Could  all  of  true  and  noble  in  knight  and  man 
Twine  round  one  sin,  whatever  it  might  be, 
With  such  a  closeness,  but  apart  there  grew, 
Save  that  he  were  the  swine  thou  spakest  of, 
Some  root  of  knighthood  and  pure  nobleness ; 
Whereto  see  thou,  that  it  may  bear  its  flower. 

" '  And  spake  I  not  too  truly,  O  my  knights  ? 
Was  I  too  dark  a  prophet  when  I  said 


PELLEAS  AND  ETTARRE. 


187 


To  those  who  went  npon  the  Holy  Quest 
That  most  of  them  would  follow  wandering  fires, 
Lost  in  the  quagmire, —  lost  to  me  and  gone, 
And  left  me  gazing  at  a  barren  board, 
And  a  lean  order — scarce  return'd  a  tithe  — 
And  out  of  those  to  whom  the  vision  came 
My  greatest  hardly  will  believe  he  saw; 
Another  hath  beheld  it  afar  off, 
And  leaving  human  wrongs  to  right  themselves, 
Cares  but  to  pass  into  the  silent  life. 
And  one  hath  had  the  vision  face  to  face, 
And  now  his  chair  desires  him  here  in  vain, 
However  they  may  crown  him  otherwhere. 

"  'And  some  among  you  held  that  if  the  king 
Had  seen  the  sight  he  would  have  sworn  the  vow: 
Not  easily,  seeing  that  the  king  must  guard 
That  which  he  rules,  and  is  but  as  the  hind 
To  whom  a  space  of  land  is  given  to  plough, 
Who  may  not  wander  from  the  allotted  field 
Before  his  work  be  done ;  but,  being  done, 
Let  visions  of  the  night  or  of  the  day 
Come,  as  they  will ;  and  many  a  time  they  come, 
Until  this  earth  he  walks  on  seems  not  earth, 
This  light  that  strikes  his  eyeball  is  not  light, 
This  air  that  smites  his  forehead  is  not  air 
But  vision — yea,  his  very  hand  and  foot — 
In  moments  when  he  feels  he  cannot  die, 
And  knows  himself  no  vision  to  himself, 
Nor  the  high  God  a  vision,  nor  that  One 
Who  rose  again:  ye  have  seen  what  ye  have  seen.' 

"So  spake  the  king:  I  knew  not  all  he  meant" 


PELLEAS  AND  ETTARRE. 

KING  ABTUUK  made  new  knights  to  fill  the  gap 
Left  by  the  Holy  Quest ;   and  as  he  sat 
In  hall  at  old  Caerleon,  the  high  doors 
Were  softly  sunder'd,  and  thro'  these  a  youth, 
Pelleas,  and  the  sweet  smell  of  the  fields 
Past,  and  the  sunshine  came  along  with  him. 

"Make  me  thy  knight,  because  I  know,  Sir  Kiug, 
All  that  belongs  to  knighthood,  and  I  love," 
Such  was  his  cry;  for  having  heard  the  king 
Had  let  proclaim  a  tournament — the  prize 
A  golden  circlet  and  a  knightly  sword, 
Full  fain  had  Pelleas  for  his  lady  won 
The  golden  circlet,  for  himself  the  sword: 
And  there  were  those  who  knew  him  near  the  king 
And  promised  for  him:  and  Arthur  made  him  knight. 

And  this  new  knight,  Sir  Pelleas  of  the  isles — 
But  lately  come  to  his  inheritance, 
And  lord  of  many  a  barren  isle  was  he — 
Riding  at  noon,  a  day  or  twain  before, 
Across  the  forest  call'd  of  Dean,  to  find 
Caerleon  and  the  king,  had  felt  the  sun 
Beat  like  a  strong  knight  on  his  helm,  and  reel'd 
Almost  to  falling  from  his  horse;  but  saw 
Near  him  a  mound  of  even-sloping  side, 
Whereon  a  hundred  stately  beeches  grew, 
And  here  and  there  great  hollies  under  them. 
But  for  a  mile  all  round  was  open  space, 
And  fern  and  heath:   and  slowly  Pelleas  drew 
To  that  dun  day,  then  binding  his  good  horse 
To  a  tree,  cast  himself  down ;  and  as  he  lay 
At  random  looking  over  the  brown  earth 
Thro'  that  green-glooming  twilight  of  the  grove, 
It  seem'd  to  Pelleas  that  the  fern  without 
Burnt  as  a  living  fire  of  emeralds, 
So  that  his  eyes  were  dazzled  looking  at  it. 
Then  o'er  it  crost  the  dimness  of  a  cloud 
Floating,  and  once  the  shadow  of  a  bird 


Flying,  and  then  a  fawn ;  and  his  eyes  closed. 
And  since  he  loved  all  maidens,  but  no  maid 
In  special,  half  awake  he  whisper'd,  "Where? 
O  where  ?    I  love  thee,  tho'  I  know  thee  not. 
For  fair  thon  art,  and  pure  as  Guinevere, 
And  I  will  make  thee  with  my  spear  and  sword 
As  famous — O  my  queen,  my  Guinevere, 
For  I  will  be  thine  Arthur,  when  we  meet." 

Suddenly  waken'd  with  a  sound  of  talk 
And  laughter  at  the  limit  of  the  wood, 
And  glancing  through  the  hoary  boles,  he  saw, 
Strange  as  to  some  old  prophet  might  have  seem'd 
A  vision  hovering  on  a  sea  of  fire, 
Damsels  in  divers  colors  like  the  cloud 
Of  sunset  and  sunrise,  and  all  of  them 
On  horses,  and  the  horses  richly  trapt 
Breast-high  in  that  bright  line  of  bracken  stood : 
And  all  the  damsels  talk'd  confusedly, 
And  one  was  pointing  this  way,  and  one  that, 
Because  the  way  was  lost. 

And  Pelleas  rose, 

And  loosed  his  horse,  and  led  him  to  the  light 
There  she  that  seem'd  the  chief  among  them,  said, 
"In  happy  time  behold  our  pilot-star. 
Youth,  we  are  damsels-errant,  and  we  ride, 
Arm'd  as  ye  see,  to  tilt  against  the  knights 
There  at  Caerleon,  but  have  lost  our  way: 
To  right?  to  left?  straight  forward?  back  again? 
Which?  tell  us  quickly." 

And  Pelleas  gazing  thought, 
"Is  Guinevere  herself  so  beautiful?" 
For  large  her  violet  eyes  look'd,  and  her  bloom 
A  rosy  dawn  kindled  in  stainless  heavens, 
And  round  her  limbs,  mature  in  womanhood, 
And  slender  was  her  hand  and  small  her  shape, 
And  but  for  those  large  eyes,  the  haunts  of  scorn, 
She  might  have  seem'd  a  toy  to  trifle  with, 
And  pass  and  care  no  more.    But  while  he  gazed 
The  beauty  of  her  flesh  abash'd  the  boy, 
As  tho'  it  were  the  beauty  of  her  soul : 
For  as  the  base  man,  judging  of  the  good, 
Puts  his  own  baseness  in  him  by  default 
Of  will  and  nature,  so  did  Pelleas  lend 
All  the  young  beauty  of  his  own  soul  to  hers, 
Believing  her;  and  when  she  spake  to  him, 
Stammer'd,  and  could  not  make  her  a  reply. 
For  out  of  the  waste  islands  had  he  come, 
Where  saving  his  own  sisters  he  had  known 
Scarce  any  but  the  women  of  his  isles, 
Rough  wives,  that  langh'd  and  scream'd  against  the 

gulls, 
Makers  of  nets,  and  living  from  the  sea. 

Then  with  a  slow  smile  turn'd  the  lady  round 
And  look'd  upon  her  people ;  and  as  when 
A  stone  is  flung  into  some  sleeping  tarn, 
The  circle  widens  till  it  lip  the  marge, 
Spread  the  slow  smile  thro'  all  her  company. 
Three  knights  were  thereamong;  and  they  too  smiled, 
Scorning  him ;  for  the  lady  was  Ettarre, 
And  she  was  a  great  lady  in  her  land. 

Again  she  said,  "O  wild  and  of  the  woods, 
Knowest  thou  not  the  fashion  of  our  speech  ? 
Or  have  the  Heavens  but  given  thee  a  fair  face, 
Lacking  a  tongue?" 

"O  damsel,"  answer'd  he, 

"  I  woke  from  dreams ;  and  coming  out  of  gloom 
Was  dazzled  by  the  sudden  light,  and  crave 
Pardon:  but  will  ye  to  Caerleon?    I 
Go  likewise:  shall  I  lead  you  to  the  King?" 
"Lead  then,"  she  said;  and  thro'  the  woods  they 

went. 

And  while  they  rode,  the  meaning  in  his  eyes, 
His  tenderness  of  manner,  and  chaste  awe, 
His  broken  utterances  and  bashfulness, 
Were  all  a  burden  to  her,  and  in  her  heart 


188 


PELLEAS  AND  ETTARRE. 


She  mntter'd,  "I  have  lighted  on  a  fool, 

Raw,  yet  BO  stale !"    But  since  her  mind  was  bent 

On  hearing,  after  trumpet  blown,  her  name 

And  title,  "Queen  of  Beauty,"  in  the  lists 

Cried  —  and  beholding  him  so  strong,  she  thought 

That  peradventure  he  will  fight  for  me, 

And  win  the  circlet :  therefore  flattered  him, 

Being  eo  gracious,  that  he  wellnigh  deem'd 

His  wish  by  hers  was  echo'd ;  and  her  knights 

And  all  her  damsels  too  were  gracious  to  him, 

For  she  was  a  great  lady. 

And  when  they  reach'd 
Caerleon,  ere  they  past  to  lodging,  she, 
Taking  his  hand,  "O  the  strong  hand,"  she  said, 
"See!  look  at  mine!  but  wilt  thou  fight  for  me, 
And  win  me  this  fine  circlet,  Pelleas, 
That  I  may  love  thee?" 

Then  his  helpless  heart 

Leapt,  and  he  cried,  "Ay!  wilt  thou  if  I  win  f" 
"Ay,  that  will  I,"  she  answer'd,  and  she  laugh' d, 
And  straitly  nipt  the  hand,  and  flung  it  from  her ; 
Then  glanced  askew  at  those  three  knights  of  here, 
Till  all  her  ladies  laugh'd  along  with  her. 

"O  happy  world,"  thought  Pelleas,  "all,  meseems, 
Are  happy ;  I  the  happiest  of  them  all." 
Nor  slept  that  night  for  pleasure  in  his  blood, 
And  green  wood-ways,  and  eyes  among  the  leaves: 
Then  being  on  the  morrow  knighted,  sware 
To  love  one  only.    And  as  he  came  away, 
The  men  who  met  him  rounded  on  their  heels 
And  wonder'd  after  him,  because  his  face 
Shone  like  the  countenance  of  a  priest  of  old 
Against  the  flame  about  a  sacrifice 
Kindled  by  fire  from  heaven:  so  glad  was  he. 

Then  Arthur  made  vast   banquets,  and   strange 

knights 

From  the  four  winds  came  in:  and  each  one  sat, 
Tho'  served  with  choice  from  air,  laud,  stream,  and 

sea, 

Oft  in  mid-banquet  measuring  with  his  eyes 
His  neighbor's  make  and  might :  and  Pelleas  look'd 
Noble  among  the  noble,  for  he  dream'd 
His  lady  loved  him,  and  he  knew  himself 
Loved  of  the  King :   and  him  his  new-made  knight 
Worshipt,  whose  lightest  whisper  moved  him  more 
Than  all  the  ranged  reasons  of  the  world. 

Then  blush'd  and  brake  the  morning  of  the  jousts, 
And  this  was  call'd  "The  Tournament  of  Youth:" 
For  Arthur,  loving  his  young  knight,  withheld 
His  older  and  his  mightier  from  the  lists, 
That  Pelleas  might  obtain  his  lady's  love, 
According  to  her  promise,  and  remain 
Lord  of  the  tourney.    And  Arthur  had  the  jousts 
Down  in  the  flat  field  by  the  shore  of  Usk 
Holden:  the  gilded  parapets  were  crown'd 
With  faces,  and  the  great  tower  filled  with  eyes 
Up  to  the  summit,  and  the  trumpets  blew. 
There  all  day  long  Sir  Pelleas  kept  the  field 
With  honor :  so  by  that  strong  hand  of  his 
The  sword  and  golden  circlet  were  achieved. 

Then  rang  the  shout  his  lady  loved :  the  heat 
Of  pride  and  glory  fired  her  face ;  her  eye 
Sparkled ;  she  caught  the  circlet  from  his  lance, 
And  there  before  the  people  crown'd  herself: 
So  for  the  last  time  she  was  gracious  to  him. 

Then  at  Caerleon  for  a  space— her  look 
Bright  for  all  others,  cloudier  on  her  knight — 
Linger'd  Ettarre:   and  seeing  Pelleas  droop, 
Said  Guinevere,  "  We  marvel  at  thee  much, 
O  damsel,  wearing  this  unsunny  face 
To  him  who  won  thee  glory !"    And  she  said, 
"Had  ye  not  held  your  Lancelot  in  your  bower, 
My  Oueen,  he  had  not  won."    Whereat  the  Queen, 


As  one  whose  foot  is  bitten  by  an  ant, 

Glanced  down  upon  her,  turn'd  and  went  her  way. 

But  after,  when  her  damsels,  and  herself, 
And  those  three  knights  all  set  their  faces  home, 
Sir  Pelleas  follow'd.    She  that  saw  him  cried, 
"Damsels— and  yet  I  should  be  ashamed  to  say  it— 
I  cannot  bide  Sir  Baby.  -Keep  him  back 
Among  yourselves.    Would  rather  that  we  had 
Some  rough  old  knight  who  knew  the  worldly  way. 
Albeit  grizzlier  than  a  bear,  to  ride 
And  jest  with:  take  him  to  yon,  keep  him  off, 
And  pamper  him  with  papmeat,  if  ye  will, 
Old  milky  fables  of  the  wolf  and  sheep, 
Such  as  the  wholesome  mothers  tell  their  boys. 
Nay,  shuold  ye  try  him  with  a  merry  one 
To  find  his  mettle,  good :  and  if  he  fly  us, 
Small  matter !  let  him."    This  her  damsels  heard, 
And  mindful  of  her  small  and  cruel  hand, 
They,  closing  round  him  thro'  the  journey  home, 
Acted  her  hest,  and  always  from  her  side 
Eestraiu'd  him  with  all  manner  of  device, 
So  that  he  could  not  come  to  speech  with  her. 
And  when  she  gain'd  her  castle,  upsprang  the  bridge, 
Down  rang  the  grate  of  iron  thro'  the  groove, 
And  he  was  left  alone  in  open  field.   . 

"These  be  the  ways  of  ladies,"  Pelleas  thought, 
"  To  those  who  love  them,  trials  of  our  faith. 
Yea,  let  her  prove  me  to  the  uttermost, 
For  loyal  to  the  uttermost  am  I." 
So  made  his  moan ;  and,  darkness  falling,  sought 
A  priory  not  far  off,  there  lodged,  but  rose 
With  morning  every  day,  and,  moist  or  dry, 
Full-arm'd  upon  his  charger  all  day  long 
Sat  by  the  walls,  and  no  one  open'd  to  him. 

And  this  persistence  turn'd  her  scorn  to  wrath. 
Then  calling  her  three  knights,  she  charged  them, 

"Out! 

And  drive  him  from  the  walls."    And  out  they  came, 
But  Pelleas  overthrew  them  as  they  dash'd 
Against  him  one  by  one ;  and  these  return'd, 
But  still  he  kept  his  watch  beneath  the  wall. 

Thereon  her  wrath  became  a  hate;  and  once, 
A  week  beyond,  while  walking  on  the  walls 
With  her  three  knights,   she   pointed   downward, 

"Look, 

He  haunts  me— I  cannot  breathe— besieges  me; 
Down !  strike  him !  put  my  hate  into  your  stroke?, 
And  drive  him  from  my  walls."  And  down  they  went, 
And  Pelleas  overthrew  them  one  by  one ; 
And  from  the  tower  above  him  cried  Ettarre, 
"  Bind  him,  and  bring  him  in." 

He  heard  her  voice-, 

Then  let  the  strong  hand,  which  had  overthrown 
Her  minion-knights,  by  those  he  overthrew 
Be  bounden  straight,  and  so  they  brought  him  in. 

Then  when  he  came  before  Ettarre,  the  sight 
Of  her  rich  beauty  made  him  at  one  glance 
More  bondsman  in  his  heart  than  in  his  bonds. 
Yet  with  good  cheer 'he  spake,  "Behold  me,  Lady, 
A  prisoner,  and  the  vassal  of  thy  will ; 
And  if  thou  keep  me  in  thy  donjon  here, 
Content  am  I  so  that  I  see  thy  face 
But  once  a  day:  for  1  have  sworn  my  vows, 
And  thou  hast  given  thy  promise,  and  I  know 
That  all  these  pains  are  trials  of  my  faith, 
And  that  thyself,  when  thou  hast  seen  me  straiu'd 
And  sifted  to  the  utmost,  wilt  at  length 
Yield  me  thy  love  and  know  me  for  thy  knight" 

Then  she  began  to  rail  so  bitterly, 
With  all  her  damsels,  he  was  stricken  mute; 
But  when  she  mock'd  his  vows  and  the  great  King, 
Lighted  on  words:  "For  pity  of  thine  own  self, 


PELLEAS  AND  ETTARRE. 


189 


Peace,  Lady,  peace :  is  he  not  thine  and  mine  ?" 
"Thou  fool,"  she  said,  "I  never  heard  his  voice 
Bat  long'd  to  hreak  away.    Unbiud  him  now, 
And  thrust  him  out  of  doors;  for  save  he  be 
Fool  to  the  midmost  marrow  of  his  bones, 
He  will  return  no  more."    And  those,  her  three, 
Laugh'd,  and  unbound,  and  thrust  him  from  the  gate. 

And  after  this,  a  week  beyond,  again 
She  call'd  them,  saying,  "There  he  watches  yet, 
There  like  a  dog  before  his  master's  door! 
Kick'd,  he  returns :  do  ye  not  hate  him,  ye  ? 
Ye  know  yourselves:  how  can  ye  bide  at  peace, 
Affronted  with  his  fulsome  innocence? 
Are  ye  but  creatures  of  the  board  and  bed, 
No  men  to  strike?    Fall  on  him  all  at  once, 
And  if  ye  slay  him  I  reck  not :  if  ye  fail, 
Give  ye  the  slave  mine  order  to  be  bonnd, 
Bind  him  as  heretofore,  and  bring  him  in : 
It  may  be  ye  shall  slay  him  in  his  bonds." 

She  spake;   and  at  her  will   they  conch'd  their 

spears, 

Three  against  one :  and  Gawain  passing  by, 
Bound  upon  solitary  adventure,  saw 
Low  down  beneath  the  shadow  of  those  towers 
A  villany,  three  to  one :  and  thro'  his  heart 
The  fire  of  honor  and  all  noble  deeds  ' 
Flash'd,  and  he  call'd,  "I  strike  upon  thy  side— 
The  caitiffs!"    "Nay,"  said  Pelleas,  "but  forbear; 
He  needs  no  aid  who  doth  his  lady's  will." 

So  Gawain,  looking  at  the  villany  done, 
Forbore,  but  in  his  heat  and  eagerness 
Trembled  and  quiver'd,  as  the  dog,  withheld 
A  moment  from  the  vermin  that  he  sees 
Before  him,  shivers,  ere  he  springs  and  kills. 

And  Pelleas  overthrew  them,  one  to  three ; 
And  they  rose  up,  and  bound,  and  brought  him  in. 
Then  first  her  anger,  leaving  Pelleas,  burn'd 
Full  on  her  knights  in  many  an  evil  name 
Of  craven,  weakling,  and  thrice-beaten  hound : 
"Yet  take  him,  ye  that  scarce  are  fit  to  touch, 
Far  less  to  bind,  your  victor,  and  thrust  him  out, 
And  let  who  will  release  him  from  his  bonds. 
And  if  he  comes  again" — there  she  brake  short; 
And  Pelleas  answer'd,  "Lady,  for  indeed 
I  loved  you  and  I  deem'd  you  beautiful, 
I  cannot  brook  to  see  your  beauty  marr'd 
Thro'  evil  spite :  and  if  ye  love  me  not, 
I  cannot  bear  to  dream  you  so  forsworn: 
I  had  liefer  ye  were  worthy  of  my  love, 
Than  to  be  loved  again  of  you  —  farewell; 
And  tho'  ye  kill  my  hope,  not  yet  my  love, 
Vex  not  yourself:  ye  will  not  see  me  more." 

While  thus  he  spake,  she  gazed  upon  the  man 
Of  princely  bearing,  tho'  in  bonds,  and  thought, 
"Why  have  I  push'd  him  from  me?  this  man  loves, 
If  love  there  be :  yet  him  I  loved  not.    Why  ? 
I  deem'd  him  fool?  yea,  so?  or  that  in  him 
A  something — was  it  nobler  than  myself?  — 
Seem'd  my  reproach  ?    He  is  not  of  my  kind. 
He  could  not  love  me,  did  he  know  me  well. 
Nay,  let  him  go  —  and  quickly."    And  her  knights 
Laugh'd  not,  but  thrust  him  bounden  out  of  door. 

Forth  sprang  Gawain,  and  loosed  him  from  his 

bonds, 

And  flung  them  o'er  the  wails;  and  afterward, 
Shaking  his  hands,  as  from  a  lazar's  rag, 
"Faith  of  my  body,"  he  said,  "and  art  thon  not  — 
Yea  thou  art  he,  whom  late  our  Arthur  made 
Knight  of  his  table ;  yea  and  he  that  won 
The  circlet?  wherefore  hast  thon  so  defamed 
Thy  brotherhood  in  me  and  all  the  rest, 
As  let  these  caitiffs  on  thee  work  their  will?" 


And  Pelleas  answer'd,  "O,  their  wills  are  hers 
For  whom  I  won  the  circlet;  and  mine,  hers, 
Thus  to  be  bounden,  so  to  see  her  face, 
Marr'd  tho'  it  be  with  spite  and  mockery  now. 
Other  than  when  I  found  her  in  the  woods; 
And  tho'  she  hath  me  bounden  but  in  spite, 
And  all  to  flout  me,  when  they  bring  me  in, 
Let  me  be  bonnden,  I  shall  see  her  face; 
Else  must  I  die  thro'  mine  unhappiness." 

And  Gawain  answer'd  kindly  tho'  in  scorn, 
"Why,  let  my  lady  bind  me  if  she  will, 
And  let  my  lady  beat  me  if  she  will  : 
But  an  she  send  her  delegate  to  thrall 
These  fighting  hands  of  mine— Christ  kill  me  then 
But  I  will  slice  him  handless  by  the  wrist, 
ilnd  let  my  lady  sear  the  stump  for  him, 
Howl  as  he  may.    But  hold  me  for  your  friend : 
Come,  ye  know  nothing:   here  I  pledge  my  troth, 
Yea,  by  the  honor  of  the  Table  Bound, 
I  will  be  leal  to  thee  and  work  thy  work, 
And  tame  thy  jailing  princess  to  thine  hand. 
Lend  me  thine  horse  and  arms,  and  I  will  say 
That  I  have  slain  thee.    She  will  let  me  in 
To  hear  the  manner  of  thy  fight  and  fall ; 
Then,  when  I  come  within  her  counsels,  then 
From  prime  to  vespers  will  I  chant  thy  praise 
As  prowest  knight  and  truest  lover,  more 
Than  any  have  sung  thee  living,  till  she  long 
To  have  thee  back  in  lusty  life  again, 
Not  to  be  bound,  save  by  white  bonds  and  warm, 
Dearer  than  freedom.    Wherefore  now  thy  horse 
And  armor :   let  me  go :   be  comforted : 
Give  me  three  days  to  melt  her  fancy,  and  hope 
j  The  third  night  heuce  will  bring  thee  news  of  gold. 

!     Then  Pelleas  lent  his  horse  and  all  his  arms, 
:  Saving  the  goodly  sword,  his  prize,  and  took 
Gawaiu's,  and  said,  "Betray  me  not,  but  help — 
Art  thou  not  he  whom  men  call  light-of-love  ?" 

!     "Ay,"  said  Gawain,  "for  women  be  so  light." 
Then  bounded  forward  to  the  castle  walls, 
And  raised  a  bugle  hanging  from  his  neck, 

!  And  winded  it,  and  that  so  musically 
That  all  the  old  echoes  hidden  in  the  wall 
Rang  out  like  hollow  woods  at  huntiugtide. 

Up  ran  a  score  of  damsels  to  the  tower ; 
"Avaunt,"  they  cried,  "our  lady  loves  thee  not." 
But  Gawain  lifting  up  his  visor  said, 
"Gawaiu  am  I,  Gawain  of  Arthur's  court, 
And  I  have  slain  this  Pelleas  whom  ye  hatfa; 
Behold  his  horse  and  armor.    Open  gate, 
And  I  will  make  you  merry." 

And  down  they  ran, 
Her  damsels,  crying  to  their  lady,  "  Lo ! 
Pelleas  is  dead  —  he  told  us  — he  that  hath 
His  horse  and  armor :  will  ye  let  him  in  ? 
He  slew  him  !    Gawain,  Gawain  of  the  court, 
Sir  Gawain— there  he  waits  below  the  wall, 
Blowing  his  bugle  as  who  should  say  him  nay." 

And  so,  leave  given,  straight  on  thro'  open  door 
Rode  Gawain,  whom  she  greeted  courteously. 
"Dead,  is  it  so?"  she  ask'd.    "Ay,  ay,"  said  he, 
"  And  oft  in  dying  cried  npon  your  name." 
"Pity  on  him,"  she  answer'd,  "a  good  knight, 
But  never  let  me  bide  one  hour  at  peace." 
"Ay,"  thought  Gawain,  "and  ye  be  fair  enow: 
But  I  to  your  dead  man  have  given  my  troth, 
That  whom  ye  loathe  him  will  I  make  ye  love." 

So  those  three  days,  aimless  about  the  land, 
Lost  in  a  doubt,  Peileas  wandering 
Waited,  until  the  third  night  brought  a  moon 
i  With  promise  of  large  light  on  woods  and  ways. 


190 


PELLEAS  AND  ETTARRE. 


The  night  was  hot:  he  could  not  rest,  but  rode 
Ere  midnight  to  her  walls,  and  bound  his  horse 
Hard  by  the  gates.    Wide  open  were  the  gates, 
And  no  watch  kept ;  and  in  thro'  these  he  past, 
And  heard  but  his  own  steps,  and  his  own  heart 
Beating,  for  nothing  moved  but  his  own  self, 
And  his  own  shadow.    Then  he  crost  the  court, 
And  saw  the  postern  portal  also  wide 
Yawning ;  and  up  a  slope  of  garden,  all 
Of  roses  white  and  red,  and  wild  ones  mixt 
And  overgrowing  them,  went  on,  and  found, 
Here  too,  all  hush'd  below  the  mellow  moon, 
Save  that  one  rivulet  from  a  tiny  cave 
Came  lightening  downward,  and  so  split  itself 
Among  the  roses,  and  was  lost  again. 

Then  was  he  ware  that  white  pavilions  rose, 
Three  from  the  bushes,  gilden-peakt ;  in  one, 
Red  after  revel,  droned  her  lurdan  knights 
Slumbering,  and  their  three  squires  across  their  feet : 
In  one,  their  malice  on  the  placid  lip 
Froz'n  by  sweet  sleep,  four  of  her  damsels  lay  : 
And  in  the  third,  the  circlet  of  the  jousts 
Bound  on  her  brow,  were  Gawain  and  Ettarre. 

Back,  as  a  hand  that  pushes  thro1  the  leaf 
To  find  a  nest  and  feels  a  snake,  he  drew: 
Back,  as  a  coward  slinks  from  what  he  feare 
To  cope  with,  or  a  traitor  proven,  or  hound 
Beaten,  did  Pelleas  in  an  utter  shame 
Creep  with  his  shadow  thro'  the  court  again, 
Fingering  at  his  sword-handle  until  he  stood 
There  on  the  castle-bridge  once  more,  and  thought, 
"  I  will  go  back,  and  slay  them  where  they  lie." 

And  so  went  back  and  seeing  them  yet  in  sleep 
Said,  "  Ye,  that  so  dishallow  the  holy  sleep, 
Your   sleep  is  death,"   and   drew   the   sword,  and 

thought, 
"What!   slay  a  sleeping   knight?    the   King  hath 

bound 

And  sworn  me  to  this  brotherhood ;"  again, 
"Alas  that  ever  a  knight  should  be  so  false." 
Then  turn'd,  and  so  return'd,  and  groaning  laid 
The  naked  sword  athwart  their  naked  throats, 
There  left  it,  and  them  sleeping ;  and  she  lay, 
The  circlet  of  the  tourney  round  her  brows, 
And  the  sword  of  the  tourney  across  her  throat. 

And  forth  he  past,  and  mounting  on  his  horse 
Stared  at  her  towers  that,  larger  than  themselves 
In  their  own  darkness,  throng'd  into  the  moon. 
Then  crush'd  the  saddle  with  his  thighs,  and  clench 'd 
His  hands,  and  madden' d  with  himself  and  inoan'd: 

"Would  they  have  risen  against  me  in  their  blood 
At  the  last  day?    I  might  have  answer'd  them 
Even  before  high  God.    O  towers  so  strong, 
So  solid,  would  that  even  while  I  gaze 
The  crack  of  earthquake  shivering  to  your  base 
Split  you,  and  Hell  burst  up  your  harlot  roofs 
Bellowing,  and  charr'd  you  thro'  and  thro'  within, 
Black  as  the  harlot's  heart  — hollow  as  a  skull ! 
Let  the  fierce  east  scream  thro'  your  eyelet-holes, 
And  whirl  the  dust  of  harlots  round  and  round 
In  dung  and  nettles !  hiss,  snake  —  I  saw  him  there  — 
Let  the  fox  bark,  let  the  wolf  yell.    Who  yells 
Here  in  the  still  sweet  summer  night,  but  I  — 
I,  the  poor  Felleas  whom  she  call'd  her  fool  ? 
Fool,  beast  —  he,  she,  or  I  ?  myself  most  fool ; 
Beast  too,  as  lacking  human  wit  —  disgraced, 
Dishonor'd  all  for  trial  of  true  love  — 
Love?  —  we  be  all  alike:  only  the  king 
Hath  made  us  fools  and  liars.    O  noble  vows ! 
O  great  and  sane  and  simple  race  of  brutes 
That  own  no  lust  because  they  have  no  law ! 
For  why  should  I  have  loved  her  to  my  shame  ? 


[  loathe  her,  as  I  loved  her  to  my  shame. 
I  never  loved  her,  I  but  lusted  for  her— 
Away  — " 

He  dash'd  the  rowel  into  his  horse, 
And  bounded  forth  and  vanish'd  thro'  the  night 

Then  she,  that  felt  the  cold  touch  on  her  throat. 
Awaking  knew  the  sword,  and  turn'd  herself, 
To  Gawain :  "  Liar,  for  thoti  hast  not  slain 
This  Pelleas !  here  he  stood  and  might  have  slain 
Me  and  thyself."    And  he  that  tells  the  tale 
Says  that  her  ever-veering  fancy  turn'd 
To  Pelleas,  as  the  one  true  knight  on  earth, 
And  only  lover ;  and  thro'  her  love  her  life 
Wasted  and  pined,  desiring  him  in  vain. 

But  he  by  wild  and  way,  for  half  the  night, 
And  over  hard  and  soft,  striking  the  sod 
From  out  the  soft,  the  spark  from  off  the  hard, 
Rode  till  the  star  above  the  wakening  sun, 
Beside  that  tower  where  Percivale  was  cowl'd, 
Glanced  from  the  rosy  forehead  of  the  dawn. 
For  so  the  words  were  flash'd  iuto  his  heart 
He  knew  not  whence  or  wherefore :  "  O  sweet  star, 
Pure  on  the  virgin  forehead  of  the  dawn." 
And  there  he  would  have  wept,  but  felt  his  eyes 
Harder  and  drier  than  a  fountain  bed 
In  summer:  thither  came  the  village  girls 
And  linger'd  talking,  and  they  come  no  more 
Till  the  sweet  heavens  have  fill'd  it  from  the  heights 
Again  with  living  waters  in  the  change 
Of  seasons:  hard  his  eyes;  harder  his  heart 
Seem'd ;  but  so  weary  were  his  limbs,  that  he, 
Gasping,  "Of  Arthur's  hall  am  I,  but  here, 
Here  let  me  rest  and  die,"  cast  himself  down, 
And  gulfl  his  griefs  in  inmost  sleep;  so  lay, 
Till  shaken  by  a  dream,  that  Gawain  fired 
The  hall  of  Merlin,  and  the  morning  star 
Reel'd  in  the  smoke,  brake  into  flame,  and  fell. 

He  woke,  and  being  ware  of  some  one  nigh, 
Sent  hands  upon  him,  as  to  tear  him,  crying, 
"False!  and  I  held  thee  pure  as  Guinevere." 

But  Percivale  stood  near  him  and  replied, 
"Am  I  but  false  as  Guinevere  is  pure? 
Or  art  thou  mazed  with  dreams?  or  being  one 
Of  our  free-spoken  Table  hast  not  heard      [paused. 
That   Lancelot"— there    he    check'd    himself    and 

Then  fared  it  with  Sir  Pelleas  as  with  one 
Who  gets  a  wound  in  battle,  and  the  sword 
That  made  it  plunges  thro'  the  wound  again, 
And  pricks  it  deeper :  and  he  shrank  and  wail'd, 
"Is  the  Queen  false?"  and  Percivale  was  mute. 
"Have  any  of  our  Round  Table  held  their  vows?" 
And  Percivale  made  answer  not  a  word. 
"Is  the  King  true?"    "The  King!"  said  Percivale. 
"Why  then  let  men  conple  at  once  with  wolves. 
What !  art  thou  mad  ?" 

But  Pelleas,  leaping  up, 
Ran  thro'  the  doors  and  vaulted  on  his  horse 
And  fled :  small  pity  upon  his  horse  had  he, 
Or  on  himself,  or  any,  and  when  he  met 
A  cripple,  one  that  held  a  hand  for  alms— 
Hunch'd  as  he  was,  and  like  an  old  dwarf-elm 
That  turns  its  back  on  the  salt  blast,  the  boy 
Paused  not  but  overrode  him,  shouting,  "False, 
And  false  with  Gaxvain  !"  and  so  left  him  bruised 
And  batter'd,  and  fled  on,  and  hill  and  wood 
Went  ever  streaming  by  him  till  the  gloom, 
That  follows  on  the  turning  of  the  world, 
Darken'd  the  common  path :  he  twitch'd  the  rein?, 
And  made  his  beast  that  better  knew  it,  swerve 
Now  off  it  and  now  on ;  but  when  he  saw 
High  up  in  heaven  the  hall  that  Merlin  built, 
Blackening  against  the  dead-green  stripes  of  even, 
"Black  nest  of  rats,"  he  groan'd,  "ye  build  too  high." 


GUINEVERE. 


191 


Not  long  thereafter  from  the  city  gates 
Issued  Sir  Lancelot,  riding  airily, 
Warm  with  a  gracious  parting  from  the  Queen, 
Peace  at  his  heart,  and  gazing  at  a  star 
And  marvelling  what  it  was:  on  whom  the  boy, 
Across  the  silent  seeded  meadow-grass 
Borne,  clash'd:   and  Lancelot,  saying,  "What  name 

hast  thou 

That  ridest  here  so  blindly  and  so  hard  ?" 
"I  have  no  name,"  he  shouted:  "a  scourge  am  I, 
To  lash  the  treasons  of  the  Table  Round."    [cried: 
"Yea,  but  thy  name?"    "I  have  many  names,"  he 
"I  am  wrath  and  shame  and  hate  and  evil  fame, 
And  like  a  poisonous  wind  I  pass  to  blast 
And  blaze  the  crime  of  Lancelot  and  the  Queen." 
"First  over  me,"  said  Lancelot,  "shalt  thou  pass." 
"Fight  therefore,  "y  el  I'd  the  other,  and  either  knight 
Drew  back  a  space,  and  when  they  closed,  at  once 
The  weary  steed  of  Pelleas  floundering  flung 
His  rider,  who  called  out  from  the  dark  field, 
"Thou  art  false  as  Hell:  slay  me:  I  have  no  sword." 
Then  Lancelot,  "Yea,  between  thy  lips  —  and  sharp ; 
But  here  will  I  disedge  it  by  thy  death." 
"Slay  then,"  he  shriek'd,  "my  will  is  to  be  slain." 
And  Lancelot,  with  his  heel  upon  the  fall'n, 
Rolling  his  eyes,  a  moment  stood,  then  spake. : 
"Rise,  weakling:  I  am  Lancelot;  say  thy  say." 

And  Lancelot  slowly  rode  his  war-horse  bsck 
To  Camelot,  and  Sir  Pelleas  in  brief  while 
Caught  his  unbroken  limbs  from  the  dark  field, 
And  follow'd  to  the  city.    It  chanced  that  both 
Brake  into  hall  together,  worn  and  pale. 
There  with  her  knights  and  dames  was  Guinevere. 
Full  wonderingly  she  gazed  on  Lancelot 
So  soon  return'd,  and  then  on  Pelleas,  him 
Who  had  not  greeted  her,  but  cast  himself 
Down    on    a   bench,  hard  -  breathing.      "Have   ye 

fought  f " 

She  ask'd  of  Lancelot    "Ay,  my  Queen,"  he  said. 
"And    thou    hast    overthrown    him?"     "Ay,   my 

Queen." 

Then  she,  turning  to  Pelleas,  "O  young  knight, 
Hath  the  great  heart,  of  knighthood  in  thee  fail'd 
So  far  thou  canst  not  bide,  unfrowardly, 
A  fall  from  him?"    Then,  for  he  answer'd  not, 
liOr  hast  thou  other  griefs?    If  I,  the  Queen, 
May  help  them,  loose  thy  tongue,  and  let  me  know." 
But  Pelleas  lifted  up  an  eye  so  fierce 
She  quail'd;  and  he,  hissing,  "I  have  no  sword," 
Sprang  from  the  door  into  the  dark.    The  Queea 
Look'd  hard  upon  her  lover,  he  on  her; 
And  each  foresaw  the  dolorous  day  to  be: 
And  all  talk  died,  as  in  a  grove  all  song 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  some  bird  of  prey, 
Then  a  long  silence  came  upon  the  hall, 
And  Modred  thought,  "The  time  is  hard  at  hand." 


GUIXEVERE. 

QUEEN  GUINEVERE  had  fled  the  court,  and  sat 
There  in  the  holy  house  at  Almesbury 
Weeping,  none  with  her  save  a  little  maid, 
A  novice :  one  low  light  betwixt  them  burn'd 
Blurr'd  by  the  creeping  mist,  for  all  abroad, 
Beneath  a  moon  unseen  albeit  at  full 
The  white  mist,  like  a  face-cloth  to  the  face, 
Clung  to  the  dead  earth,  and  the  laud  was  still. 

For  hither  had  she  fled,  her  cause  of  flight 
Sir  Modred:  he  the  nearest  to  the  King, 
His  nephew,  ever  like  a  subtle  beast 
Lay  conchant  with  his  eyes  upon  the  throne, 
Ready  to  spring,  waiting  a  chance :  for  this, 
He  chill'd  the  popular  praises  of  the  King, 
With  silent  smiles  of  slow  disparagement ; 


And  tamper'd  with  the  Lords  of  the  White  Horse, 
Heathen,  the  brood  by  Hengist  left;  and  sought 
To  make  disruption  in  the  Table  Round 
Of  Arthur,  and  to  splinter  it  into  feuds 
Serving  his  traitorous  end;  and  all  his  aims 
Were  sharpeu'd  by  strong  hate  for  Lancelot 

For  thus  it  chanced  one  morn  when  all  the  court, 
Green-suited,  but  with  plumes  that  mock'd  the  May, 
Had  been,  their  wont,  a-maying  and  return'd, 
That  Modred  still  in  green,  all  ear  and  eye, 
Climb'd  to  the  high  top  of  the  garden  wall 
To  spy  some  secret  scandal  if  he  might, 
And  saw  the  Queen,  who  sat  betwixt  her  best 
Enid,  and  lissome  Vivien,  of  her  court 
The  wiliest  and  the  worst;  and  more  than  this 
He  saw  not,  for  Sir  Lancelot  passing  by 
Spied  where  he  couch'd,  and  as  the  gardener's  hand 
Picks  from  the  colewort  a  green  caterpillar, 
So  from  the  high  wall  and  the  flowering  grove 
Of  grasses  Lancelot  pluck'd  him  by  the  heel, 
And  cast  him  as  a  worm  upon  the  way ; 
But  when  he  knew  the  Prince,  tho'  marr'd  with  dust, 
He,  reverencing  king's  blood  in  a  bad  man, 
Made  such  excuses  as  he  might,  and  these 
Full  knightly  without  scorn ;  for  in  those  days 
No  knight  of  Arthur's  noblest  dealt  in  scorn ; 
But,  if  a  man  were  halt  or  hunch'd,  in  him 
By  those  whom  God  had  made  full-limb'd  and  tall, 
Scorn  was  allow'd  as  part  of  his  defect, 
And  he  was  answer'd  softly  by  the  King 
And  all  his  Table.    So  Sir  Lancelot  holp 
To  raise  the  Prince,  who  rising  twice  or  thrice 
Full  sharply  smote  his  knees,  and  smiled,  and  went: 
But,  ever  after,  the  small  violence  done 
Rankled  in  him  and  ruffled  all  his  heart, 
As  the  sharp  wind  that  ruffles  all  day  long 
A  little  bitter  pool  about  a  stone 
On  the  bare  coast. 

But  when  Sir  Lancelot  told 
This  matter  to  the  Queen,  at  first  she  laugh'd 
Lightly,  to  think  of  Modred's  dusty  fall, 
Then  shndder'd,  as  the  village  wife  who  cries, 
"I  shudder,  some  one  steps  across  my  grave;'' 
Then  laugh'd  again,  but  faintlier,  for  indeed 
She  half-foresaw  that  he,  the  subtle  beast, 
Would  track  her  guilt  until  he  found,  and  hers 
Would  be  forevermore  a  name  of  scorn. 
Henceforward  rarely  could  she  front  in  Hall, 
Or  elsewhere,  Modred's  narrow  foxy  face, 
Heart-hiding  smile,  and  gray  persistent  eye: 
Henceforward,  too,  the  Powers  that  tend  the  soul, 
To  help  it  from  the  death  that  cannot  die, 
And  save  it  even  in  extremes,  began 
To  vex  and'  plague  her.    Many  a  time  for  hours, 
Beside  the  placid  breathings  of  the  King, 
In  the  dread  night,  grim  faces  came  and  went 
Before  her,  or  a  vague  spiritual  fear- 
Like  to  some  doubtful  noise  of  creaking  doors, 
Heard  by  the  watcher  in  a  haunted  house, 
That  keeps  the  rust  of  murder  on  the  walls — 
Held  her  awake ;  or  if  she  slept,  she  dream'd 
An  awful  dream ;  for  then  she  seemed  to  stand 
On  some  vast  plain  before  a  setting  Bun, 
And  from  the  sun  there  swiftly  made  at  her 
A  ghastly  something,  and  its  shadow  flew 
Before  her,  till  it  touched  her,  and  she  tnrn'd— 
When  lo !  her  own,  that  broadening  from  her  feet, 
And  blackening,  swallow'd  all  the  land,  and  in  it 
Far  cities  burnt,  and  with  a  cry  she  woke. 
And  all  this  trouble  did  not  pass  but  grew ; 
Till  ev'n  the  clear  face  of  the  guileless  King, 
And  trustful  courtesies  of  household  life, 
Became  her  bane;  and  at  the  last  she  said, 
"O  Lancelot,  get  thee  hence  to  thine  own  land, 
For  if  thou  tarry  we  shall  meet  again, 
And  if  we  meet  again  some  evil  chance 
Will  make  the  smouldering  scandal  break  and  blaze 


192 


GUINEVERE. 


Before  the  people,  and  our  lord  the  King." 
And  Lancelot  ever  promised,  but  remain'd, 
And  still  they  met  and  met.    Again  she  said, 
"  O  Lancelot,  if  thou  love  me  get  thee  hence," 
And  then  they  were  agreed  upon  a  night 
(When  the  good  King  should  not  be  there)  to  meet 
And  part  forever.    Passion-pale  they  met 
And  greeted:  hands  in  hands,  and  eye  to  eye, 
Low  on  the  border  of  her  couch  they  sat 
Stammering  and  staring ;  it  was  their  last  hour, 
A  madness  of  farewells.    And  Modred  brought 
His  creatures  to  the  basement  of  the  tower 
For  testimony;  and  crying  with  full  voice, 
"Traitor,  come  out,  ye  are  trapt  at  last,"  aroused 
Lancelot,  who  rushing  outward  lion-like 
Leapt  on  him,  and  hurl'd  him  headlong,  and  he  fell 
Stunn'd,  and  his  creatures  took  and  bare  him  off 
And  all  was  still:  then  she,  "The  end  is  come 
And  I  am  shamed  forever;"  and  he  said, 
"  Mine  be  the  shame ;  mine  was  the  sin ;  but  rise, 
And  fly  to  my  strong  castle  overseas ; 
There  will  I  hide  thee,  till  my  life  shall  end, 
There  hold  thee  with  my  life  against  the  world." 
She  answer'd,  "  Lancelot,  wilt  thou  hold  me  so  ? 
Nay  friend,  for  we  have  taken  our  farewells. 
Would  God,  that  thou  couldst  hide  me  from  my- 
self! 

Mine  is  the  shame,  for  I  was  wife,  and  thou 
Unwedded :  yet  rise  now,  and  let  us  fly, 
For  I  will  draw  me  into  sanctuary, 
And  bide  my  doom."    So  Lancelot  got  her  horse, 
Set  her  thereon,  and  mounted  on  his  own, 
And  then  they  rode  to  the  divided  way, 
There  kiss'd,  and  parted  weeping;  for  he  past, 
Love-loyal  to  the  least  wish  of  the  Queen, 
Back  to  his  land;  but  she  to  Almesbury 
Fled  all  night  long  by  glimmering  waste  and  weald, 
And  heard  the  Spirits  of  the  waste  and  weald 
Moan  as  she  fled,  or  thought  she  heard  them  moan ; 
And  in  herself  she  moan'd,  "Too  late,  too  late!" 
Till  iu  the  cold  wind  that  foreruns  the  morn, 
A  blot  in  heaven,  the  Raven,  flying  high, 
Croak'd,  and  she  thought,  "  He  spies  a  field  of  death ; 
For  now  the  heathen  of  the  Northern  Sea, 
Lured  by  the  crimes  and  frailties  of  the  court, 
Begin  to  slay  the  folk,  and  spoil  the  laud." 

And  when  she  came  to  Almesbury  she  spake 
There  to  the  nuns,  and  said,  "Mine  enemies 
Pursue  me,  but,  O  peaceful  Sisterhood, 
Receive,  and  yield  me  sanctuary,  nor  ask 
Her  name,  to  whom  ye  yield  it,  till  her  time 
To  tell  yon :"  and  her  beauty,  grace,  and  power 
Wrought  as  a  charm  upon  them,  and  they  spared 
To  ask  it 

So  the  stately  Queen  abode 
For  many  a  week,  unknown,  among  the  nuns ; 
Nor  with  them  mix'd,  nor  told  her  name,  nor  sought, 
Wrapt  in  her  grief,  for  honsel  or  for  shrift, 
But  communed  only  with  the  little  maid, 
Who  pleased  her  with  a  babbling  heedlessness 
Which  often  lured  her  from  herself;  but  now, 
This  night,  a  rumor  wildly  blown  about 
Came,  that  Sir  Modred  had  nsurp'd  the  realm, 
And  leagued  him  with  the  heathen,  while  the  King 
Was  waging  war  on  Lancelot:  then  she  thought, 
"With  what  a  hate  the  people  and  the  King 
Must  hate  me,"  and  bow'd  down  upon  her  hands 
Silent,  until  the  little  maid,  who  brook'd 
No  silence,  brake  it,  uttering  "  Late  !  so  late  ! 
What  hour,  I  wonder,  now  ?"  and  when  she  drew 
No  answer,  by  and  by  began  to  hum 
An  air  the  nuns  had  taught  her;  "Late  so  late*" 
Which  when  she  heard,  the  Queen  look'd  up,  and 

said, 

"O  maiden,  if  indeed  you  list  to  sing, 
Sing,  and  unbind  my  heart  that  I  may  weep." 
Whereat  full  willingly  sang  the  little  maid. 


"  Late,  late,  so  late  !  and  dark  tho  night  and  ehill ! 
Late,  late,  so  late !  but  we  can  enter  still. 
Too  late,  too  late !  ye  cannot  enter  now. 

"No  light  had  we:  for  that  we  do  repent; 
And  learning  this,  the  bridegroom  will  relent. 
Too  late,  too  late  I  ye  cannot  enter  now. 

"No  light :  so  late !  and  dark  and  chill  the  night ! 
O  let  us  in,  that  we  may  find  the  light ! 
Too  late,  too  late !  ye  cannot  enter  now. 

"Have  we  not  heard  the  bridegroom  is  so  sweet? 

0  let  us  in,  tho'  late,  to  kiss  his  feet ! 
No,  no,  too  late  !  ye  cannot  enter  now." 

So  sang  the  novice,  while,  full  passionately, 
Her  head  upon  her  hands,  remembering 
Her  thought  when  first  she  came,  wept  the  sad  Queen. 
Then  said  the  little  novice  prattling  to  hers 

"  O  pray  you,  noble  lady,  weep  no  more ; 
But  let  my  words,  the  words  of  one  so  small, 
Who  knowing  nothing  knows  but  to  obey, 
And  if  I  do  not  there  is  penance  given — 
Comfort  your  sorrows ;  for  they  do  not  flow 
From  evil  done ;  right  sure  am  I  of  that, 
Who  see  your  tender  grace  and  stateliness. 
But  weigh  your  sorrows  with  our  lord  the  King's, 
And  weighing  find  them  less;  for  gone  is  he 
To  wage  grim  war  against  Sir  Lancelot  there, 
Round  that  strong  castle  where  he  holds  the  Queen  ; 
And  Modred  whom  he  left  in  charge  of  all, 
The  traitor — Ah  sweet  lady,  the  King's  grief 
For  his  own  self,  and  his  own  Queen,  and  realm, 
Must  needs  be  thrice  as  great  as  any  of  ours. 
For  me,  I  .thank  the  saints  I  am  not  great. 
For  if  there  ever  come  a  grief  to  me 

1  cry  my  cry  in  silence,  and  have  done: 

None  knows  it,  and  my  tears  have  brought  me  good. 

But  even  were  the  griefs  of  little  ones 

As  great  as  those  of  great  ones,  yet  this  grief 

Is  added  to  the  griefs  the  great  must  bear, 

That  howsoever  much  they  may  desire 

Silence,  they  cannot  weep  behind  a  cloud: 

As  even  here  they  talk  at  Almesbury 

About  the  good  King  and  his  wicked  Queen, 

And  were  I  such  a  King  with  such  a  Queen, 

Well  might  I  wish  to  veil  her  wickedness, 

But  were  I  such  a  King,  it  could  not  be." 

Then  to  her  own  sad  heart  mutter'd  the  Qneen, 
"  Will  the  child  kill  me  with  her  innocent  talk  ?" 
But  openly  she  answer'd,  "  Must  not  I, 
If  this  false  traitor  have  displaced  his  lord, 
Grieve  with  the  common  grief  of  all  the  realm  ?'• 

"Yea,"  said  the  maid,  "this  is  all  woman's  grief, 
That  she  is  woman,  whose  disloyal  life 
Hath  wrought  confusion  in  the  Table  Round 
Which  good  King  Arthur  founded,  years  ago, 
With  signs  and  miracles  and  wonders,  there 
At  Camelot,  ere  the  coming  of  the  Queen." 

Then  thought  the  Queen  within  herself  again, 
"Will  the  child  kill  me  with  her  foolish  prate?" 
But  openly  she  spake  and  said  to  her, 
"O  little  maid,  shut  in  by  nunnery  walls, 
What  canst  thou  know  of  Kings  and  Tables  Round, 
Or  what  of  signs  and  wonders,  but  the  signa 
And  simple  miracles  of  thy  nunnery  ?" 

To  whom  the  little  novice  garrulously: 
"Yea,  but  I  know:  the  land  was  full  of  signs 
And  wonders  ere  the  coming  of  the  Queen. 
So  said  my  father,  and  himself  was  knight 
Of  the  great  Table— at  the  founding  of  it : 
And  rode  thereto  from  Lyonnesse,  and  he  said 
That  as  he  rode,  an  hour  or  may  be  twain 


GUINEVERE. 


193 


"  While  he  past  the  dim-Ht  woods, 
Himself  beheld  three  spirits  mad  with  joy 
Come  dashing  down  on  a  tall  wayside  flower.' 


After  the  sunset,  down  the  coast  he  heard 
Strange  music,  and  he  paused  and  turning  —  there, 
All  down  the  lonely  coast  of  Lyonnesse, 
Each  with  a  beacon-star  upon  his  head, 
And  with  a  wild  sea-light  about  his  feet, 
He  saw  them  —  headland  after  headland  flame 
Far  on  into  the  rich  heart  of  the  west  : 
And  in  the  light  the  white  merrnairtcn  s\vnm, 
And  strong  man-breasted  things  stood  from  the  sea, 
And  sent  a  deep  sea-voice  thro'  all  the  land, 
To  which  the  little  elves  of  chasm  and  cleft 
Made  answer,  sounding  like  a  distant  horn. 
So  said  my  father  — yea  and  furthermore, 
Next  morning,  while  he  past  the  dim-lit  woods, 
Himself  beheld  three  spirits  mad  with  joy 
Come  dashing  down  on  a  tall  wayside  flower, 
That  shook  beneath  them,  as  the  thistle  shakes 
When  three  gray  linnets  wrangle  for  the  seed : 
13 


And  still  at  evenings  on  before  his  horse 

The  flickering  fairy-circle  wheel'd  and  broke 

Flying,  and  link'd  agaiu,  and  wheel'd  and  broke 

Flying,  for  all  the  land  was  full  of  life. 

And  when  at  last  he  came  to  Camelot, 

A  wreath  of  airy  dancers  hand-in-hand 

Swung  round  the  lighted  lantern  of  the  hall : 

And  in  the  hall  itself  was  such  a  feast 

As  never  man  had  dream'd  ;  for  every  knight 

Had  whatsoever  meat  he  long'd  for  served 

By  hands  unseen ;  and  even  as  he  said 

Down  in  the  cellars  merry  bloated  things 

Shoulder'd  the  spigot,  straddling  on  the  butts 

While  the  wine  ran :  so  glad  were  spirits  and  men 

Before  the  coming  of  the  sinful  Queen." 

Then  spake  the  Queen,  and  somewhat  bitterly, 
''Were  they  so  glad?  ill  prophets  were  they  aU, 


194 


GUINEVERE. 


Spirits  and  men  :  could  none  of  them  foresee, 

Not  even  thy  wise  father  with  his  signs 

And  wonders,  what  has  fall'n  upon  the  realm  ?" 

To  whom  the  novice  garrulously  again : 
"Yea,  one,  a  bard:  of  whom  my  father  said, 
Full  many  a  noble  war-song  had  he  sung, 
Ev'n  in  the  presence  of  an  enemy's  fleet, 
Between  the  steep  cliff  and  the  coming  wave  * 
And  many  a  mystic  lay  of  life  and  death 
Had  chanted  on  the  smoky  mountain-tops, 
When  round  him  bent  the  spirits  of  the  hills 
With  all  their  dewy  hair  blown  back  like  flame: 
So  said  my  father— and  that  night  the  bard 
Sang  Arthur's  glorious  wars,  and  sang  the  King 
As  welluigh  more  than  man,  and  rail'd  at  those 
Who  call'd  him  the  false  son  of  Gorlo'is: 
For  there  was  no  man  knew  from  whence  he  came ; 
But  after  tempeet,  when  the  long  wave  btoke 
All  down  the  thundering  shores  of  Bude  and  Bos, 
There  came  a  day  as  still  as  heaven,  and  then 
They  found  a  naked  child  upon  the  sands 
Of  dark  Dundagil  by  the  Cornish  sea ; 
And  that  was  Arthur ;  and  they  foster'd  him 
Till  he  by  miracle  was  approven  king : 
And  that  his  grave  should  be  a  mystery 
From  all  men, tike  his  birth;  and  could  he  find 
A  woman  in  her  womanhood  as  great 
As  he  was  in  his  manhood,  then,  he  sang, 
The  twain  together  well  might  change  the  world. 
But  even  in  the  middle  of  his  song 
He  falter'd,  and  his  hand  fell  from  the  harp, 
And  pale  he  tnrn'd  and  reel'd,  and  would  have  fall'n, 
But  that  they  stay'd  him  up ;  nor  would  he  tell 
His  vision ;  but  what  doubt  that  he  foresaw 
This  evil  work  of  Lancelot  and  the  Queen  ?" 

Then  thought  the  Queen,  "Lo!  they  have  set  her 

on, 

Our  simple-seeming  Abbess  and  her  nuns, 
To  play  upon  me,"  and  bow'd  her  head  nor  spake. 
Whereat  the  novi»e  crying,  with  clasp'd  hands, 
Shame  on  her  own  garrulity  j/arrulously, 
Said  the  good  nuns  would  check  her  gadding  tongue 
Full  often,  "And,  sweet  lady,  if  I  seem 
To  vex  an  ear  too  sad  to  listen  to  me, 
Unmannerly,  with  prattling  and  the  tales 
Which  my  good  father  told  me,  check  me  too : 
Nor  let  me  shame  my  father's  memory,  one 
Of  noblest  manners,  tho'  himself  would  say 
Sir  Lancelot  had  the  noblest ;  and  he  died, 
KilPd  in  a  tilt,  come  next,  five  summers  back, 
And  left  me ;  but  of  others  who  remain, 
And  of  the  two  first- famed  for  courtesy  — 
And  pray  you  check  me  if  I  ask  amiss  — 
But  pray  yon,  which  had  noblest,  while  you  moved 
Among  them,  Lancelot  or  our  Lord  the  King?" 

Then  the  pale  Queen  look'd  up  and  answered  her, 
"  Sir  Lancelot,  as  became  a  noble  knight, 
Was  gracious  to  all  ladies,  and  the  same 
In  open  battle  or  the  tilting-fleld 
Forbore  his  own  advantage,  and  the  King 
In  open  battle  or  the  tilting-fleld 
Forbore  his  own  advantage,  and  these  two 
Were  the  most  nobly-manner'd  men  of  all ; 
For  manners  are  not  idle,  but  the  fruit 
Of  loyal  nature,  and  of  noble  mind." 

"Yea," said  the  maid,  "be  manners  such  fair  fruit? 
Then  Lancelot's  needs  must  be  a  thousandfold 
Less  noble,  being,  as  all  rumor  runs, 
The  most  disloyal  friend  in  all  the  world." 

To  which  a  mournful  answer  made  the  Queen, 
"O  closed  about  by  narrowing  nunnery-walls, 
What  knowest  thon  of  the  world,  and  all  its  lights 
And  shadows,  all  the  wealth  and  all  the  woe  ? 


If  ever  Lancelot,  that  most  noble  knight, 
Were  for  one  hour  less  noble  than  himself, 
Pray  for  him  that  he  scape  the  doom  of  fire, 
And  weep  for  her  who  drew  him  to  his  doom." 

"Yea,"  said  the  little  novice,  "I  pray  for  both; 
But  I  should  all  as  soon  believe  that  his, 
Sir  Lancelot's,  were  as  noble  as  the  King's, 
As  I  could  think,  sweet  lady,  yours  would  be 
Such  as  they  are,  were  you  the  sinful  Queen." 

So  she,  like  many  another  babbler,  hurt 
I  Whom  she  would  soothe,  and   harm'd   where   slie 

would  heal ; 

For  here  a  sudden  flush  of  wrathful  heat 
Fired  all  the  pale  face  of  the  Queen,  who  cried, 
"  Such  as  thou  art  be  never  maiden  more 
:  Forever !  thou.  their  tool,  set  on  to  plague 
i  And  play  upon,  and  harry  me,  petty  spy 
\  And  traitress."    When  that  storm  of  anger  brake 
;  From  Guinevere,  aghast  the  maiden  rose, 
j  White  as  her  veil,  and  stood  before  the  Queen 
As  tremulously  as  foam  upon  the  beach 
Stands  in  a  wind,  ready  to  break  and  fly, 
And  when  the  Queen  had  added  "  Get  thee  heuce  I" 
Fled  frighted.    Then  that  other  left  alone 
Sigh'd,  and  began  to  gather  heart  again, 
Saying  in  herself,  "  The  simple,  fearful  child 
Meant  nothing,  but  my  own  too-fearful  guilt 
Simpler  than  any  child,  betrays  itself. 
But  help  me,  heaven,  for  surely  I  repent. 
For  what  is  true  repentance  but  in  thought— 
Not  e'en  in  inmost  thought  to  think  again 
The  sins  that  made  the  past  so  pleasant  to  us. 
And  I  have  sworn  never  to  see  him  more, 
To  see  him  more." 

And  ev'n  in  saying  this, 
Her  memory  from  old  habit  of  the  mind 
Went  slipping  back  upon  the  golden  days 
In  which  she  saw  him  first,  when  Lancelot  came, 
Reputed  the  best  knight  and  goodliest  man[ 
Ambassador,  to  lead  her  to  his  lord 
Arthur,  and  led  her  forth,  and  far  ahead 
Of  his  and  her  retinue  moving,  they, 
Rapt  ill  sweet  thought,  or  lively,  all  on  love 
And  sport  and  tilts  and  pleasure,  (for  the  time 
Was  maytime,  and  as  yet  no  sin  was  dream'd,) 
Rode  under  groves  that  look'd  a  paradise 
Of  blossom,  over  sheets  of  hyacinth 
That  seem'd  the  heavens  upbreaking  thro'  the  earth. 
And  on  from  hill  to  hill,  and  every  day 
Beheld  at  noon  in  some  delicious  dale 
The  silk  pavilions  of  King  Arthur  raised 
For  brief  repast  or  afternoon  repose 
By  courtiers  gone  before ;  and  on  again, 
Till  yet  once  more  ere  set  of  sun  they  saw 
The  dragon  of  the  great  Pendragonship, 
That  crown'd  the  state  pavilion  of  the  King, 
Blaze  by  the  rushing  brook  or  silent  well. 

But  when  the  Queen  immersed  in  snch  a  trance, 
And  moving  thro'  the  past  unconsciously, 
i  Came  to  that  point,  when  first  she  saw  the  King 
!  Ride  toward  her  from  the  city,  sigh'd  to  find 
;  Her  journey  done,  glanced  at  him,  thought  him  cold, 
High,  self-contain'd,  and  passionless,  not  like  him, 
"Not  like  my  Lancelot  "—while  she  brooded  thus 
1  And  grew  half-guilty  in  her  thoughts  again, 
i  There  rode  an  armed  warrior  to  the  doors.  , 

j  A  murmuring  whisper  thro'  the  nunnery  ran, 
i  Then  on  a  sudden  a  cry,  "The  King."    She  sat 
Stiff-stricken,  listening:  but  when  armed  feet 
Thro'  the  long  gallery  from  the  outer  doors 
Rang  coming,  prone  from  off  her  seat  she  fell, 
And  grovell'd  with  her  face  against  the  floor: 
There  with  her  milkwhite  arms  and  shadowy  hair 
She  made  her  face  a  darkness  from  the  King: 
And  in  the  darkness  heard  his  armed  feet 


GUINEVERE. 


195 


Pause  by  her  ;  then  came  silence,  then  a  voicn, 
Monotonous  and  hollow  like  a  Ghost's 
Denouncing  judgment,  but  tho'  changed  the  King's. 

"Liest  thou  here  so  low,  the  child  of  one 
I  honor'd,  happy,  dead  before  thy  shame? 
Well  is  it  that  no  child  is  born  of  thee. 
The  children  born  of  thee  are  sword  and  fire, 
Red  ruin,  and  the  breaking  up  of  laws, 
The  craft  of  kindred  and  the  Godless  hosts 
Of  heathen  swarming  o'er  the  Northern  Sea. 
Whom  I,  while  yet  Sir  Lancelot,  my  right  arm, 
The  mightiest  of  my  knights  abode  with  me, 
Have  everywhere  about  this  land  of  Christ 
in  twelve  great  battles  ruining  overthrown. 
A.ud  knowest  thou  now  from  whence  I  come — from 

him, 

From  waging  bitter  war  with  him :  and  he, 
That  did  not  shun  to  smite  me  in  worse  way, 
Had  yet  that  grace  of  courtesy  in  him  left, 
He  spared  to  lift  his  hand  against  the  King 
Who  made  him  knight:  but  many  a  knight  was 

slain; 

And  many  more,  and  all  his  kith  and  kin 
Clave  to  him,  and  abode  in  his  own"  land. 
And  many  more  when  Modred  raised  revolt, 
Forgetful  of  their  troth  and  fealty,  clave 
To  Modred,  and  a  remnant  stays  with  me. 
And  of  this  remnant  will  I  leave  a  part, 
True  men  who  love  me  still,  for  whom  I  live, 
To  guard  thee  in  the  wild  hour  coming  on, 
Lest  but  a  hair  of  this  low  head  be  harm'd. 
Fear  not :  thou  shall  be  guarded  till  my  death. 
Howbeit  I  know,  if  ancient  prophecies 
Have  err'd  not,  that  I  march  to  meet  my  doom. 
Thou  hast  not  made  my  life  so  sweet  to  me, 
That  I  the  King  should  greatly  care  to  live; 
For  thou  h'ast  spoilt  the  purpose  of  my  life. 
Bear  with  me  for  the  last  time  while  I  show, 
Ev'n  for  thy  sake,  the  sin  which  thou  hast  sinn'd. 
For  when  the  Roman  left  us,  and  their  law 
Relax'd  its  hold  upon  us,  and  the  ways 
Were  flll'd  with  rapine,  here  and  there  a  deed 
Of  prowess  done  redress'd  a  random  wrong. 
But  I  was  first  of  all  the  kings  who  drew 
The  knighthood-errant  of  this  realm  and  ah 
The  realms  together  under  me,  their  Head, 
In  that  fair  order  of  my  Table  Round, 
A  glorious  company,  the  flower  of  men, 
To  serve  as  model  for  the  mighty  world, 
And  be  the  fair  beginning  of  a  time. 
I  made  them  lay  their  hands  in  mine  and  swear 
To  reverence  the  King,  as  if  he  were 
Their  conscience,  and  their  conscience  as  their  King, 
To  break  the  heathen  and  uphold  the  Christ, 
To  ride  abroad  redressing  human  wrongs, 
To  speak  no  slander,  no,  nor  listen  to  it, 
To  lead  sweet  lives  in  purest  chastity, 
To  love  one  maiden  only,  cleave  to  her, 
And  worship  her  by  years  of  noble  deeds, 
Until  they  won  her ;  _for  indeed  I  knew 

;Of  no  more  subtle  master  under  heaven 
Than  is  the  maiden  passion  for  a  maid, 
Not  only  to  keep  down  the  base  in  man, 
.  But  teach  high  thought,  and  amiable  words 
'  And  courtliness,  and  the  desire  of  fame, 

And  love  of  truth,  and  all  that  makes  a  man. 
'And  all  this  throve  until  I  wedded  thee! 
Believing  "lo  mine  helpmate,  one  to  feel 
My  purpose  and  rejoicing  in  my  joy." 
Then  came  thy  shameful  sin  with  Lancelot; 
Then  came  the  sin  of  Tristram  and  Isolt ; 
Then  others,  following  these  my  mightiest  knights, 
And  drawing  foul  ensample  from  fair  names, 
Sinn'd  also,  till  the  loathsome  opposite 
Of  all  my  heart  had  destined  did  obtain, 
And  all  thro'  thee  '.  so  that  this  life  of  mine 
I  guard  as  God's  high  gift  from  scathe  and  wrong, 


Not  greatly  care  to  lose;  but  rather  think 

How  sad  it  were  for  Arthur,  should  he  live, 

To  sit  once  more  within  his  lonely  hall, 

And  miss  the  wonted  number  of  my  knights, 

And  miss  to  hear  high  talk  of  noble  deeds 

As  in  the  golden  days  before  thy  sin. 

For  which  of  us,  who  might  be  left,  could  speak 

Of  the  pure  heart,  nor  seem  to  glance  at  thee  ? 

And  in  thy  bowers  of  Camelot  or  of  Usk 

Thy  shadow  still  would  glide  from  room  to  room, 

And  I  should  evermore  be  vext  with  thee 

In  hanging  robe  or  vacant  ornament, 

Or  ghostly  footfall  echoing  on  the  stair. 

For  think  not,  tho'  thou  wouldst  not  love  thy  lord, 

Thy  lord  has  wholly  lost  his  love  for  thee. 

I  am  not  made  of  so  slight  elements. 

Yet  must  I  leave  thee,  woman,  to  thy  shame. 

I  hold  that  man  the  worst  of  public  foes 

Who  either  for  his  own  or  children's  sake, 

To  save  his  blood  from  scandal,  lets  the  wife 

Whom  he  knows  false,  abide  and  rule  the  house : ; 

For  being  thro'  his  cowardice  allow'd 

Her  station,  taken  everywhere  for  pure, 

She  like  a  new  disease,  unknown  to  men, 

Creeps,  no  precaution  used,  among  the  crowd, 

Makes  wicked  lightnings  of  her  eyes,  and  saps 

The  fealty  of  our  friends,  and  stirs  the  pulse 

With  devil's  leaps,  and  poisons  half  the  young. 

Worst  of  the  worst  were  that  man  he  that  reigns ! ; 

Better  the  King's  waste  hearth  and  aching  heart     j 

Than  thou  reseated  in  thy  place  of  light, 

The  mockery  of  my  people,  and  their  bane." 

He  paused,  and  in  the  pause  she  crept  an  inch 
Nearer,  and  laid  her  hands  about  his  feet. 
Far  off  a  solitary  trumpet  blew. 
Then  waiting  by  the  doors  the  war-horse  neigh'd 
As  at  a  friend's  voice,  and  he  spake  again : 

"Yet  think  not  that  I  come  to  urge  thy  crimes. 
I  did  not  come  to  curse  thee,  Guinevere, 
I,  whose  vast  pity  almost  makes  me  die 
To  see  thee,  laying  there  thy  golden  head, 
My  pride  in  happier  summers,  at  my  feet 
The  wrath  which  forced  my  thoughts  on  that  fierce 

law, 

The  doom  of  treason  and  the  flaming  death 
(When  first  I  learnt  thee  hidden  here),  is  past. 
The  pang — which  while  I  weigh'd  thy  heart  with  one 
Too  wholly  true  to  dream  untruth  in  thee, 
Made  my  tears  burn— is  also  past,  in  part. 
And  all  is  past,  the  sin  is  sinn'd,  and  I, 
Lo !  I  forgive  thee,  as  Eternal  God 
Forgives:  do  thou  for  thine  own  soul  the  rest. 
But  how  to  take  last  leave  of  all  I  loved  f 

0  golden  hair,  with  which  I  used  to  play 
Not  knowing !    O  imperial-moulded  form, 
And  beauty  such  as  never  woman  wore, 
Until  it  came  a  kingdom's  curse  with  thee — 

1  cannot  touch  thy  lips,  they  are  not  mine, 

But  Lancelot's :  nay,  they  never  were  thefKing's. 

I  cannot  take  thy  hand ;  that  too  is  flesh, 

And  in  the  flesh  thou  hast  sinn'd;  and  mine  own 

flesh, 

Here  looking  down  on  thine  polluted,  cries 
'  I  loathe  thee ;'  yet  not  less,  O  Guinevere, 
For  I  was  ever  virgin  save  for  thee, 
My  love  thro'  flesh  hath  wrought  into  my  life 
So  far,  that  my  doom  is,  I  love  thee  still. 
Let  no  man  dream  but  that  I  love  thee  still. 
Perchance,  and  so  thou  purify  thy  soul, 
And  so  thon  lean  on  our  fair  father  Christ, 
Hereafter  in  that  world  where  all  are  pure 
We  two  may  meet  before  high  God,  and  thon 
Wilt  spring  to  me,  and  claim  me  thine,  and  know 
I  am  thine  husband — not  a  smaller  soul. 
Nor  Lancelot,  nor  another.    Leave  me  that, 
I  charge  thee,  my  last  hope.    Now  must  I  hence. 


196 


THE  PASSING  OF  ARTHUR. 


Thro'  the  thick  night  I  hear  the  trumpet  blow : 
They  summon  me  their  King  to  lead  mine  hosts 
Far  down  to  that  great  battle  iu  the  west, 
Where  I  must  strike  against  my  sister's  son, 
Leagued  with  the  lords  of  the  White  Horse  and 

knights 

Once  mine,  and  strike  him  dead,  and  meet  myself 
Death,  or  I  know  not  what  mysterious  doom. 
And  thou  remaining  here  wilt  learn  the  event; 
But  hither  shall  I  never  come  again, 
Never  lie  by  thy  side,  see  thee  no  more, 
Farewell  I" 

And  while  she  grovell'd  at  his  feet, 
She  felt  the  King's  breath  wander  o'er  her  neck, 
And,  in  the  darkness  o'er  her  fallen  head, 
Perceived  the  waving  of  his  hands  that  blest. 

Then,  listening  till  those  armed  steps  were  gone, 
Rose  the  pale  Queen,  and  in  her  anguish  found 
The  casement:    "  Perad venture,"  so  she  thought, 
"  If  I  might  see  his  face,  and  not  be  seen." 
And  lo,  he  sat  on  horseback  at  the  door '. 
And  near  him  the  sad  nuns  with  each  a  light 
Stood,  and  he  gave  them  charge  about  the  Queen, 
To  guard  and  foster  her  forevermore. 
And  while  he  spake  to  these  his  helm  was  lower'd, 
To  which  for  crest  the  golden  dragon  clung 
Of  Britain ;  so  she  did  not  see  the  face, 
Which  then  was  as  au  angel's,  but  she  saw, 
Wet  with  the  mists  and  smitten  by  the  lights, 
The  Dragon  of  the  great  Pendragouship 
Blaze,  making  all  the  night  a  steam  of  fire. 
And  even  then  he  turn'd ;  and  more  and  more 
The  moony  vapor  rolling  round  the  King, 
Who  seem'd  the  phantom  of  a  Giant  in  it, 
Enwound  him  fold  by  fold,  and  made  him  gray 
And  grayer,  till  himself  became  as  mist 
Before  her,  moving  ghostlike  to  his  doom. 

Then  she  stretch'd  out  her  arms  and  cried  aloud, 
"O  Arthur!"  there  her  voice  brake  suddenly, 
Then— as  a  stream  that  spouting  from  a  cliff 
Fails  in  mid-air,  but  gathering  at  the  base 
Re-makes  itself,  and  flashes  down  the  vale- 
Went  on  in  passionate  utterance. 

"Gone— my  lord! 

Gone  thro'  my  sin  to  slay  and  to  be  slain  ! 
And  he  forgave  me,  and  I  could  not  speak. 
Farewell?    I  should  have  answer'd  his  farewell. 
His  mercy  choked  me.    Gone,  my  lord  the  King, 
My  own  true  lord!  how  dare  1  call  him  mine? 
The  shadow  of  another  cleaves  to  me, 
And  makes  me  one  pollution :  he,  the  King, 
Call'd  me  polluted :  shall  I  kill  myself? 
What  help  iu  that?    I  cannot  kill  my  sin, 
If  soul  be  soul ;  nor  can  I  kill  my  shame ; 
No,  nor  by  living  can  I  live  it  down. 
The  days  will  grow  to  weeks,  the  weeks  to  months, 
The  months  will  add  themselves  and  make  the  years, 
The  years  will  roll  into  the  centuries, 
And  mine,  will  ever  be  a  name  of  scorn. 
I  must  not  dwell  on  that  defeat  of  fame. 
Let  the  world  be;  that  is  but  of  the  world. 
What  else?  what  hope?  I  think  there  was  a  hope, 
Except  he  mock'd  me  when  he  spake  of  hope ; 
His  hope  he  call'd  it;  but  he  never  mocks, 
For  mockery  is  the  fume  of  little  hearts. 
And  blessed  be  the  King,  who  hath  forgiven 
My  wickedness  to  him,  and  left  me  hope 
That  in  mine  own  heart  I  can  live  down  sin 
And  be  his  mate  hereafter  in  the  heavens 
Before  high  God.    Ah  great  and  gentle  lord, 
Who  wast,  as  is  the  conscience  of  a  saint          f 
Among  his  warring  senses,  to  thy  knitrhts — 
To  whom  my  false  voluptuous  pride,  that  toc.k 
Full  easily  all  impressions  from  below, 
Would  not  look  up,  or  half-despised  the  height 
To  which  I  would  not  or  I  could  not  climb— 


I  thought  I  could  not  breathe  in  that  fine  air 
That  pure  severity  of  perfect  light — 
I  wanted  warmth  and  color  which  I  found 
In  Lancelot — now  I  see  thee  what  thou  art, 
Thou  art  the  highest  and  most  human  too, 
Not  Lancelot,  nor  another.    Is  there  none 
Will  tell  the  King  I  love  him  tho'  so  late? 
Now— ere  he  goes  to  the  great  Battle  ?  none : 
Myself  must  tell  him  in  that  purer  life, 
But  now  it  were  too  daring.    Ah  my  God, 
What  might  I  not  have  made  of  thy  fair  world, 
Had  I  but  loved  thy  highest  creature  here  ? 
It  was  my  duty  to  have  loved  the  highest: 
It  surely  was  my  profit  had  1  known: 
It  would  have  been  my  pleasure  had  I  seen. 
We  needs  must  love  the  highest  when  we  s^  it, 
Not  Lancelot,  nor  another." 

Here  her  hand 

Grasp'd,  made  her  veil  her  eyes :  she  look'd  and  saw 
The  novice,  weeping,  suppliant,  and  said  to  her, 
"  Yea,  little  maid,  for  am  /  not  forgiven  ?" 
Then  glancing  up  beheld  the  holy  nuns 
All  round  her,  weeping ;  and  her  heart  was  loosed 
Within  her,  and  she  wept  with  these  and  said : 

"  Ye  know  me  then,  that  wicked  one,  who  broke 
The  vast  design  and  purpose  of  the  King. 

0  shut  me  round  with  narrowing  nimuery-walls, 
Meek  maidens,  from  the  voices  crying  'Shame.' 

1  must  not  scorn  myself:  he  loves  me  still. 
Let  no  one  dream  but  that  he  loves  me  still. 
So  let  me,  if  you  do  not  shudder  at  me 
Nor  shun  to  call  me  sister,  dwell  with  you: 
Wear  black  and  white,  and  be  a  nun  like  you  ; 
Fast  with  your  fasts,  not  feasting  with  your  feasts ; 
Grieve  with  your  griefs,  not  grieving  at  your  joys, 
But  not  rejoicing ;  mingle  with  your  rites ; 

Pray  and  be  prayed  for;  lie  before  your  shrines; 

Do  each  low  office  of  your  holy  house ; 

Walk  your  dim  cloister,  and  distribute  dole 

To  poor  sick  people,  richer  in  his  eyes 

Who  ransom'd  us,  and  haler  too  than  I; 

And  treat  their  loathsome  hurts  and  heal  mine  own ; 

And  so  wear  out  in  almsdeed  and  in  prayer 

The  sombre  close  of  that  voluptuous  day, 

Which  wrought  the  ruin  of  my  lord  the  King." 

She  said :  they  took  her  to  themselves ;  and  she 
Still  hoping,  fearing  "  Is  it  yet  too  late  ?" 
Dwelt  with  them,  till  in  time  their  Abbess  died. 
Then  she,  for  her  good  deeds  and  her  pure  life, 
And  for  the  power  of  ministration  in  her, 
And  likewise  for  the  high  rank  she  had  borne, 
Was  chosen  Abbess,  there,  an  Abbess  lived 
For  three  brief  years,  and  there,  an  Abbess,  past 
To  where  beyond  these  voices  there  is  peace. 


THE  PASSING  OF  ARTHUR. 

THAT  story  which  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere 
First  made  and  latest  left  of  all  the  knight.«, 
Told,  when  the  man  was  no  more  than  a  voice 
In  the  white  winter  of  his  age,  to  those 
With  whom  he  dwelt,  new  faces,  other  minds. 

Before  that  last  weird  battle  in  the  West 
There  came  on  Arthur  sleeping,  Gawain  kill  d 
In  Lancelot's  war,  the  ghost  of  Gawain  blown 
Along  a  wandering  wind,  and  past  his  ear 
Went  shrilling,  "Hollow,  hollow  all  delight! 
Hail,  king !  to-morrow  thou  shalt  pass  away. 
Farewell !  there  Is  an  isle  of  rest  for  thee. 
And  I  am  blown  along  a  wandering  wind, 
And  hollow,  hollow,  hollow  all  delight." 


THE  PASSING  OF  ARTHUR. 


197 


And  fainter  onward,  like  wild  birds  that  change 
Their  season  iu  the  night  and  wail  their  way 
From  cloud  to  cloud,  down  the  long  wind  the  dream 
Shrill'd ;  but  in  going  mingled  with  dim  cries 
Far  in  the  moonlit  haze  among  the  hills 
As  of  some  lonely  city  sack'd  by  night, 
When  all  is  lost,  and  wife  and  child  with  wail 
Pass  to  new  lords ;  and  Arthur  woke  and  call'd, 
"  Who  spake  ?    A  dream.    O  light  upon  the  wind, 
Thine,  Gawain,  was  the  voice — are  these  dim  cries 
Thine?  or  doth  all  that  haunts  the  waste  and  wild 
Mourn,  knowing  it  will  go  along  with  me?" 

This  heard  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere  and  spake,— 
"O  me,  my  king,  let  pass  whatever  will, 
Elves,  and  the  harmless  glamour  of  the  field : 
But  iu  their  stead  thy  name  and  glory  cling 
To  all  high  places  like  a  golden  clond 
Forever:  but  as  yet  thou  shall  not  pass. 
Light  was  Gawain  in  life,  and  light  in  death 
Is  Gawain,  for  the  ghost  is  as  the  man; 
And  care  not  thou  for  dreams  from  him,  but  rise — 
I  hear  the  steps  of  Modred  in  the  West, 
And  with  him  many  of  thy  people,  and  knights 
Once  thine,  whom  thou  hast  loved,  but  grosser  grown 
Thau  heathen,  spitting  at  their  vows  and  thee. 
Right  well  in  heart  they  know  thee  for  the  king. 
Arise,  go  forth  and  conquer  as  of  old." 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedivere,— 
"Far  other  is  this  battle  in  the  West 
Whereto  we  move,  than  when  we  strove  in  youth, 
And  thrust  the  heathen  from  the  Roman  wall, 
And  shook  him  thro'  the  North.     Ill  doom  is  mine 
To  war  against  my  people  and  my  knights, 
The  king  who  fights  his  people  fights  himself. 
And  they  my  knights  who  loved  me  once  the  stroke 
That  strikes  them  dead  is  as  my  death  to  me. 
Yet  let  us  hence,  and  find  or  feel  a  way 
Thro'  this  blind  haze,  which  ever  since  I  saw 
One  lying  in  the  dust  at  Almesbury, 
Hath  folded  in  the  passes  of  the  world." 

Then  rose  the  king  and  moved  his  host  by  night, 
And  ever  push'd  Sir  Modred,  league  by  league. 
Back  to  the  sunset  bound  of  Lyonnesse, — 
A  land  of  old  npheaven  from  the  abyss 
By  fire,  to  sink  into  the  abyss  again  ; 
Where  fragments  of  forgotten  peoples  dwelt, 
And  the  long  mountain  ended  in  a  coast 
Of  ever-shifting  sand,  and  far  away 
The  phantom  circle  of  a  moaning  sea. 
There  the  pursuer  could  pursue  no  more, 
And  he  that  fled  no  further  fly  the  king; 
And  there,  that  day  when  the  great  light  of  heaven 
Bnrn'd  at  his  lowest  in  the  rolling  year, 
On  the  waste  sand  by  the  waste  sea  they  closed. 
Nor  ever  yet  had  Arthur  fought  a  fight 
Like  this  last,  dim,  weird  battle  of  the  West. 
A  death-white  mist  slept  over  sand  and  sea: 
Whereof  the  chill,  to  him  who  breathed  it,  drew 
Down  with  his  blood,  till  all  his  heart  was  cold 
With  formless  fear,  and  ev'n  on  Arthur  fell 
Confusion,  since  he  saw  not  whom  he  fought, 
For  friend  and  foe  were  shadows  in  the  mist, 
And  friend  slew  friend  not  knowing  whom  he  slew  ; 
And  some  had  visions  out  of  golden  youth, 
And  some  beheld  the  faces  of  old  ghosts 
Look  in  upon  the  battle;  and  in  the  mist 
Was  many  a  noble  deed,  many  a  base, 
And  chance  and  craft  and  strength  in  single  fights, 
And  ever  and  anon  with  host  to  host 
Shocks,  and  the  splintering  spear,  the  hard  mail  hewn, 
Shield-breakings,  and  the  clash  of  brands,  the  crash 
Of  battle-axes  on  shatter'd  helms,  and  shrieks 
After  the  Christ,  of  those  who  falling  down 
Looked  up  for  heaven,  and  only  saw  the  mist; 
And  shouts  of  heathen  and  the  traitor  knights, 


Oaths,  insult,  filth,  and  monstrous  blasphemies, 
Sweat,  writhings,  anguish,  laboring  of  the  lungs 
In  that  close  mist,  and  cryings  for  the  light, 
Moans  of  the  dying  and  voices  of  the  dead. 

Last  as  by  some  one  death-bed,  after  wail 
Of  suffering,  silence  follows,  or  thro'  death 
Or  deathlike  swoon,  thus  over  all  that  shore, 
Save  for  some  whisper  of  the  seething  seas, 
A  dead  hush  fell ;  but  when  the  dolorous  day 
Grew  drearier  toward  twilight  falling,  came 
A  bitter  wind,  clear  from  the  North,  and  blew 
The  mist  aside,  and  with  that  wind  the  tide 
Rose,  and  the  pale  king  glanced  across  the  field 
Of  battle ;  but  no  man  was  moving  there ; 
Nor  any  cry  of  Christian  heard  thereon, 
Nor  yet  of  heathen ;  only  the  wan  wave 
Brake  in  among  dead  faces,  to  and  fro 
Swaying  the  helpless  hands,  and  np  and  down 
Tumbling  the  hollow  helmets  of  the  fallen, 
And  shiver'd  brands  that  once  had  fought  with  Rome, 
And  rolling  far  along  the  gloomy  shores 
The  voice  of  days  of  old  and  days  to  be. 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedivere, 
And  whiter  than  the  mist  that  all  day  long 
Had  held  the  field  of  battle  was  the  king. 

"Hearest  thou  this  great  voice  that  shakes  the 

world, 

And  wastes  the  narrow  realm  whereon  we  move, 
And  beats  upon  the  faces  of  the  dead, 
My  dead,  as  tho'  they  had  not  died  for  me  ? — 
O  Bedivere,  for  on  my  heart  hath  fall'n 
Confusion,  till  I  know  not  what  I  am, 
Nor  whence  I  am,  nor  whether  I  be  king. 
Behold,  I  seem  but  king  among  the  dead." 

Then  spake  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere,  "My  king, 
King  everywhere !  and  so  the  dead  have  kings, 
There  also  will  I  worship  thee  as  king. 
Yet  still  thy  life  is  whole,  and  still  I  live 
Who  love  thee :  but  who  hates  thee,  he  that  brongln 
The  heathen  back  among  us,  yonder  stands, 
Modred,  unharm'd,  the  traitor  of  thine  house." 

Then  spake  the  King,  "  My  house  hath  been  mj 

doom. 

But  call  not  thou  this  traitor  of  my  house 
Who  hath  but  dwelt  beneath  one  roof  with  me. 
My  house  are  rather  they  who  sware  my  vows, 
Yea,  even  while  they  brake  them,  own'd  me  king. 
And  well  for  thee,  saying  in  my  dark  hour, 
When  all  the  purport  of  my  throne  hath  fail'd, 
That  quick  or  dead  thou  boldest  me  for  king. 
King  am  I,  whatsoever  be  their  cry ; 
And  one  last  act  of  kinghood  shall  thon  see 
Yet  ere  I  pass."    And,  uttering  this,  the  king 
Made  at  the  man :  then  Modred  smote  his  liege 
Hard  on  that  helm,  which  many  a  heathen  sword 
Had  beaten  thin,  while  Arthur  at  one  blow, 
Striking  the  last  stroke  with  Excalibur, 
Slew  him,  and  all  but  slain  himself  he  fell. 

So  all  day  long  the  noise  of  battle  roll'd 
Among  the  mountains  by  the  winter  sea ; 
Until  King  Arthur's  table,  man  by  man, 
Had  fall'n  in  Lyonnesse  about  their  lord, 
King  Arthur:  then,  because  his  wound  was  deep 
The  bold  Sir  Bedivere  uplifted  him, 
And  bore  him  to  a  chapel  nigh  the  field, 
A  broken  chancel  with  a  broken  cross, 
That  stood  on  a  dark  strait  of  barren  land. 
On  one  side  lay  the  Ocean,  and  on  one 
Lay  a  great  water,  and  the  moon  was  full. 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedivere: 
"The  sequel  of  to-day  unsolders  all 


198 


THE  PASSING  OF  ARTHUR. 


The  goodliest  fellowship  of  famous  knights 

Whereof  this  world  holds  record.    Snch  a  sleep 

They  sleep— the  men  I  loved.    I  think  that  we 

Shall  never  more,  at  any  future  time, 

Delight  our  souls  with  talk  of  knightly  deeds, 

Walking  about  the  gardens  and  the  halls 

Of  Camelot,  as  in  the  days  that  were. 

I  perish  by  this  people  which  I  made, — 

Tho'  Merlin' sware  that  I  should  come  again 

To  rule  once  more— but  let  what  will  be,  be, 

I  am  so  deeply  smitten  thro'  the  helm 

That  without  help  I  cannot  last  till  morn. 

Thou  therefore  take  my  brand  Excalibur, 

Which  was  my  pride :  for  thou  rememberest  how 

In  those  old  days,  one  summer  noon,  an  arm 

Rose  up  from  out  the  bosom  of  the  lake, 

Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonderful, 

Holding  the  sword— and  how  I  row'd  across 

And  took  it,  and  have  worn  it,  like  a  king: 

And,  wheresoever  I  am  sung  or  told 

In  after-time,  this  also  shall  be  known: 

But  now  delay  not :  take  Excalibur, 

And  fling  him  far  into  the  middle  mere: 

Watch  what  thou  seest,  and  lightly  bring  me  word." 

To  him  replied  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere: 
"  It  is  not  meet,  Sir  King,  to  leave  thee  thus, 
Aidless,  alone,  and  smitten  thro'  the  helm. 
A  little  thing  may  harm  a  wounded  man. 
Yet  I  thy  best  will  all  perform  at  full, 
Watch  what  I  see,  and  lightly  bring  thee  word." 

So  saying,  from  the  ruiu'd  shrine  he  stept 
And  in  the  moon  athwart  the  place  of  tombs, 
Where  lay  the  mighty  bones  of  ancient  men, 
Old  knights,  and  over  them  the  sea-wind  sang 
Shrill,  chill,  with  flakes  of  foam.    He,  stepping  down 
By  zigzag  paths,  and  juts  of  pointed  rock, 
Came  on  the  shining  levels  of  the  lake. 

There  drew  he  forth  the  brand  Excalibnr, 
And  o'er  him  drawing  it,  the  winter  moon, 
Brightening  the  skirts  of  a  long  clond,  ran  forth 
And  sparkled  keen  with  frost  against  the  hilt : 
For  all  the  haft  twinkled  with  diamond  sparks, 
Myriads  of  topaz-lights,  and  jacinth-work 
Of  subtlest  jewelry.    He  gazed  so  long 
That  both  his  eyes  were  dazzled,  as  he  stood, 
This  way  and  that  dividing  the  swift  mind, 
In  act  to  throw:  but  at  the  last  it  seem'd 
Better  to  leave  Excalibnr  conceal'd 
There  in  the  many-knotted  water-flags, 
That  whistled  stiff  and  dry  about  the  marge. 
So  strode  he  back  slow  to  the  wounded  king. 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedivere: 
"  Hast  thou  perform'd  my  mission  which  I  gave  ? 
What  is  it  thou  hast  seen?  or  what  hast  heard?" 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere: 
"  I  heard  the  ripple  washing  in  the  reeds, 
And  the  wild  water  lapping  on  the  crag." 

To  whom  replied  King  Arthur,  faint  and  pale : 
"Thou  hast  betray'd  thy  nature  and  thy  name, 
Not  rendering  true  answer,  as  beseem'd 
Thy  fealty,  nor  like  a  noble  knight : 
For  surer  sign  had  follow'd,  either  hand, 
Or  voice,  or  else  a  motion  of  the  mere. 
This  is  a  shameful  thing  for  men  to  lie. 
Yet  now,  I  charge  thee,  quickly  go  again 
As  thon  art  lief  and  dear,  and  do  the  thing 
I  bade  thee,  watch,  and  lightly  bring  me  word." 

Then  went  Sir  Bedivere  the  second  time 
Across  the  ridge,  and  paced  beside  the  mere, 
Counting  the  dewy  pebbles,  flx'd  in  thought ; 
But  when  he  saw  the  wonder  of  the  hilt, 


How  curiously  and  strangely  chased,  he  smote 
His  palms  together,  and  he  cried  aloud  :— 

"And  if  indeed  I  cast  the  brand  away, 
Surely  a  precious  thing,  one  worthy  note, 
Should  thus  be  lost  forever  from  the  earth, 
Which  might  have  pleased  the  eyes  of  many  men. 
What  good  should  follow  this,  if  this  were  done  ? 
What  harm,  undone  ?  deep  harm  to  disobey, 
Seeing  obedience  is  the  bond  of  rule. 
Were  it  well  to  obey  then,  if  a  king  demand 
An  act  unprofitable,  against  himself? 
The  king  is  sick,  and  knows  not  what  he  does. 
What  record,  or  what  relic  of  my  lord 
Should  be  to  after-time,  but  empty  breath 
And  rumors  of  a  doubt  ?  but  were  this  kept, 
Stored  in  some  treasure-house  of  mighty  kingt, 
Some  one  might  show  it  at  a  joust  of  arms, 
Saying,  'King  Arthur's  sword,  Excalibur, 
Wrought  by  the  lonely  maiden  of  the  Lake. 
Nine  years  she  wrought  it,  sitting  in  the  deeps 
Upon  the  hidden  bases  of  the  hills.' 
So  might  some  old  man  speak  in  the  after-time 
To  all  the  people,  winning  reverence. 
But  now  much  honor  and  much  fame  were  lost" 

So  spake  he,  clouded  "with  his  own  conceit, 
And  hid  Excalibur  the  second  time, 
And  so  strode  back  slow  to  the  wounded  king. 

Then  spoke  King  Arthur,  breathing  heavily : 
"What  is  it  thou  hast  seen?  or  what  hast  heard?" 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere: 
"  I  heard  the  water  lapping  on  the  crag, 
And  the  long  ripple  washing  in  the  reeds." 

To  whom  replied  King  Arthur,  much  in  wrath ; 
"Ah,  miserable  and  unkind,  untrue, 
Unknightly,  traitor-hearted  1    Woe  is  me  ! 
Authority  forgets  a  dying  king, 
Laid  widow'd  of  the  power  in  his  eye 
That  bow'd  the  will.    I  see  thee  what  thou  art, 
For  thou,  the  latest-left  of  all  my  knights 
In  whom  should  meet  the  offices  of  all, 
Thou  wouldst  betray  me  for  the  precious  hilt } 
Either  from  lust  of  gold,  or  like  a  girl 
Valuing  the  giddy  pleasure  of  the  eyes. 
Yet,  for  a  man  may  fail  in  duty  twice, 
And  the  third  time  may  prosper,  get  thee  hence: 
But,  if  thou  spare  to  fling  Excalibur, 
I  will  arise  and  slay  thee  with  my  hands." 

Then  quickly  rose  Sir  Bedivere,  and  ran, 
And,  leaping  down  the  ridges  lightly,  plunged 
Among  the  bulrush  beds,  and  clutch'd  the  sword, 
And  strongly  wheel'd  and  threw  it.    The  great  brand 
Made  lightnings  in  the  splendor  of  the  moon, 
And  flashing  round  and  round,  and  whirl'd  in  »u 

arch, 

Shot  like  a  streamer  of  the  northern  morn, 
Seen  where  the  moving  isles  of  winter  shock 
By  night,  with  noises  of  the  northern  sea. 
So  flash'd  and  fell  the  brand  Excalibur: 
But  ere  he  dipt  the  surface,  rose  an  arm 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonderful, 
And  caught  him  by  the  hilt,  and  brandish'd  him 
Three  times,  and  drew  him  under  in  the  mere. 
And  lightly  went  the  other  to  the  king. 

Then  spoke  King  Arthur,  drawing  thicker  breathi 
"Now  see  I  by  thine  eyes  that  this  is  done. 
Speak  out :  what  is  it  thou  hast  heard,  or  seen  ?" 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere: 
"  Sir  King,  I  closed  mine  eyelids,  lest  the  gem* 
Should  blind  my  purpose,  for  I  never  saw, 
Nor  shall  see,  here  or  elsewhere,  till  I  die, 


THE  PASSING  OF  ARTHUR. 


199 


Not  tho'  I  live  three  lives  of  mortal  men, 

So  great  a  miracle  of  yonder  hilt. 

Theii  with  both  hands  I  flung  him,  wheeling  him ; 

But  when  I  look'd  again,  behold  an  arm, 

Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonderful, 

That  caught  him  by  the  hilt,  and  brandish'd  him 

Three  times,  and  drew  him  under  in  the  mere." 

And  answer  made  King  Arthur,  breathing  hard : 
"  My  end  draws  nigh ;  'tis  time  that  I  were  gone. 
Make  broad  thy  shoulders  to  receive  my  weight, 
And  bear  me  to  the  margin ;  yet  I  fear 
My  wound  hath  taken  cold,  and  I  shall  die." 

So  saying,  from  the  pavement  he  half  rose, 
Slowly,  with  pain,  reclining  on  his  arm, 
And  looking  wistfully  with  wide  blue  eyes 
As  in  a  picture.    Him  Sir  Bedivere 
Remorsefully  regarded  thro'  his  tears, 
And  would  have  spoken,  but  he  found  not  words, 
Then  took  with  care,  and  kneeling  on  one  knee, 
O'er  both  his  shoulders  drew  the  languid  hands, 
And  rising  bore  him  thro1  the  place  of  tombs. 

But,  as  he  walk'd,  King  Arthur  panted  hard, 
Like  one  that  feels  a  nightmare  on  his  bed 
When  all  the  house  is  mute.  'So  sigh'd  the  king, 
Muttering  and  murmuring  at  his  ear,  "  Quick,  quick  ! 
I  fear  it  is  too  late,  and  I  shall  die." 
But  the  other  swiftly  strode  from  ridge  to  ridge, 
Clothed  with  his  breath,  and  looking,  as  he  walk'd, 
Larger  than  human  on  the  frozen  hills. 
He  heard  the  deep  behind  him,  and  a  cry 
Before.    His  own  thought  drove  him  like  a  goad. 
Dry  clash'd  his  harness  in  the  icy  caves 
And  barren  chasms,  and  all  to  left  and  right 
The  bare  black  cliff  clahg'd  round  him,  as  he  based 
His  feet  on  juts  of  slippery  crag  that  rang 
Sharp-smitten  with  the  dint  of  armed  heels — 
And  on  a  sudden,  lo  '.  the  level  lake, 
And  the  long  glories  of  the  winter  moon. 

Then  saw  they  how  there  hove  a  dusky  barge, 
Dark  as  a  funeral  scarf  from  stem  to  stern, 
Beneath  them ;  and  descending  they  were  ware 
That  all  the  decks  were  dense  with  stately  forms 
BVack-stoled,  black-hooded,  like  a  dream — by  these 
Three  Queens  with  crowns  of  gold — and  from  them 
M.  cry  that  shivcr'd  to  the  tingling  stars,  [rose 

And,  as  it  were  one  voice,  an  agony 
Of  lamentation,  like  a  wind  that  shrills 
All  night  in  a  waste  land,  where  no  one  comes, 
Or  hath  come,  since  the  making  of  the  world. 

Then  murmur'd  Arthur,  "Place  me  in  the  barge," 
So  to  the  barge  they  came.    There  those  three  Queens 
Put  forth  their  hands,  and  took  the  king,  and  wept. 
But  she,  that  rose  the  tallest  of  them  all 
And  fairest,  laid  his  head  upon  her  lap, 
And  loosed  the  shatter'd   casque,  and   chafed   his 

hands, 

And  call'd  him  by  his  name,  complaining  loud, 
And  dropping  bitter  tears  against  his  brow 
Striped  with  dark  blood :  for  all  his  face  was  white 
And  colorless,  and  like  the  wither'd  moon 
Smote  by  the  fresh  beam  of  the  springing  east ; 
And  all  his  greaves  and  cuisses  dash'd  with  drops 
Of  onset ;  and  the  light  and  lustrous  curls— 
That  made  his  forehead  like  a  rising  sun 
High  from  the  dais-throne— were  parch'd  with  dust ; 
Or,  clotted  into  points  and  hanging  loose, 
Mix'd  with  the  knightly  growth  that  fringed  his  lipe. 
So  like  a  shatter'd  column  lay  the  king; 
Not  like  that  Arthur  who,  with  lance  in  rest, 
From  spur  to  plume  a  star  of  tournament, 
Shot  thro'  the  lists  at  Camelot,  and  charged 
Before  the  eyes  of  ladies  and  of  kings. 


Then  loudly  cried  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere, 
"Ah!  my  lord  Arthur,  whither  shall  I  go? 
Where  shall  I  hide  my  forehead  and  my  eyes  ? 
For  now  I  see  the  true  old  times  are  dead, 
When  every  morning  brought  a  noble  chance, 
And  every  chance  brought  out  a  noble  knight. 
Such  times  have  been  not  since  the  light  that  led 
The  holy  Elders  with  the  gift  of  myrrh. 
But  now  the  whole  ROUND  TABLE  is  dissolved, 
Which  was  an  image  of  the  mighty  world ; 
And  I,  the  last,  go  forth  companiouless, 
And  the  days  darken  round  me,  and  the  years, 
Among  new  men,  strange  faces,  other  minds." 

And  slowly  answered  Arthur  from  the  barge . 
"The  old  order  change th,  yielding  place  to  new, 
And  God  fulfills  himself  in  many  ways, 
Lest  one  good  custom  should  corrupt  the  world. 
Comfort  thyself:  what  comfort  is  in  me? 
I  have  lived  my  life,  and  that  which  I  have  done 
May  He  within  himself  make  pure !  but  thou, 
If  thou  shouldst  never  see  my  face  again, 
Pray  for  my  soul.    More  things  are  wrought  by  prayer 
Thau  this  world  dreams  of.    Wherefore,  let  thy  voice 
Rise  like  a  fountain  for  me  night  and  day. 
For  what  are  men  better  than  sheep  or  goats 
That  nourish  a  blind  life  within  the  brain, 
If,  knowing  God,  they  lift  not  hands  of  prayer 
Both  for  themselves  and  those  who  call  them  friend  ? 
For  so  the  whole  round  earth  is  every  way 
Bound  by  gold  chains  about  the  feet  of  God. 
But  now  farewell.    I  am  going  a  long  way 
With  these  thou  seest — if  indeed  I  go — 
(For  all  my  mind  is  clouded  with  a  doubt) 
To  the  island-valley  of  Avilion ; 
Where  falls  not  hail,  or  rain,  or  any  snow, 
Nor  ever  wind  blows  loudly  f  but  it  lies 
Deep-meadow'd,  happy,  fair  with  orchard-lawns 
And  bowery  hollows  crown'd  with  summer  sea, 
Where  I  will  heal  me  of  my  grievous  wound." 

So  said  he,  and  the  barge  with  oar  and  sail 
Moved  from  the  brink,  like  some  full-breasted  swan 
That,  fluting  a  wild  carol  ere  her  death, 
Ruffles  her  pure  cold  plume,  and  takes  the  flood 
With  swarthy  webs.    Long  stood  Sir  Bedivere 
Revolving  many  memories,  till  the  hull 
Look'd  one  black  dot  against  the  verge  of  dawn, 
And  on  the  mere  the  wailing  died  away. 

At  length  he  groan'd,  and  turning  slowly  clomb 
The  last  hard  footstep  of  that  iron  crag ; 
Thence  mark'd  the  black  hull  moving  yet,  and  cried, 
"He  passes  to  be  king  among  the  dead, 
And  after  healing  of  his  grievous  wound 
He  comes  again ;  but — if  he  come  no  more — 
O  me,  be  yon  dark  Queens  in  yon  black  boat, 
Who  shriek'd  and  wail'd,  the  three  whereat  we  gazed 
On  that  high  day,  when,  clothed  with  living  light, 
They  stood  before  his  throne  in  silence,  friends 
Of  Arthur,  who  should  help  him  at  his  need  ?" 

Then  from  the  dawn  it  seem'd  there  came,  but  faint 
As  from  beyond  the  limit  of  the  world, 
Like  the  last  echo  born  of  a  great  cry, 
Sounds,  as  if  some  fair  city  were  one  voice 
Around  a  king  returning  from  his  wars. 

Thereat  once  more  he  moved  about,  and  clomb 
E'en  to  the  highest  he  could  climb,  and  saw, 
Straining  his  eyes  beneath  an  arch  of  hand, 
Or  thought  he  saw,  the  speck  that  bare  the  king, 
Down  that  long  water  opening  on  the  deep 
Somewhere  far  off,  pass  on  and  on,  and  go 
From  less  to  less  and  vanish  into  light. 
And  the  new  sun  rose  bringing  the  new  year. 


200 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 


ENOCH     ARDEN. 


LONG  lines  of  cliff  breaking  have  left  a  chasm  ; 
And  in  jthe  chasm  are  foam  and  yellow  sands; 
Beyond,  red  roofs  about  a  narrow  wharf 
In  cluster ;  then  a  moulder'd  church ;  and  higher 
A  long  street  climbs  to  one  tall-tower'd  mill ; 
And  high  in  heaven  behind  it  a  gray  down 
With  Danish  barrows ;  and  a  hazel-wood, 
By  autumn  nutters  haunted,  flourishes 
Green  in  a  cuplike  hollow  of  the  down. 

Here  on  this  beach  a  hundred  years  ago. 
Three  children  of  three  houses,  Annie  Lee, 
The  prettiest  little  damsel  in  the  port, 
And  Philip  Ray,  the  miller's  only  son, 
And  Enoch  Arden,'  a  rough  sailor's  lad 
Made  orphan  by  a  winter  shipwreck,  play'd 
Among  the  waste  and  lumber  of  the  shore, 
Hard  coils  of  cordage,  swarthy  fishing-nets, 
Anchors  of  rusty  fluke,  and  boats  up-drawn  ; 
And  built  their  castles  of  dissolving  sand 
To  watch  them  overflow'd,  or  following  up 
And  flying  the  white  breaker,  daily  left 
The  little  footprint  daily  wash'd  away. 

A  narrow  cave  ran  in  beneath  the  cliff: 
In  this  the  children  play'd  at  keeping  house. 
Enoch  was  host  one  day,  Philip  the  next, 
While  Annie  still  was  mistress  ;  but  at  times 
Enocn  would  hold  possession  for  a  week : 
"This  is  my  house  and  this  my  little  wife." 
"Mine  too,"  said  Philip,  "turn  and  turn  about:" 
When,  ir  they  quarrell'd,  Enoch  stronger-made 
Was  master :  then  would  Philip,  his  blue  eyes 
All  flooded  with  the  helpless  wrath  of  tears, 
Shriek  out,  "I  hate  you,  Enoch,"  and  at  this 
The  little  wife  would  weep  for  company, 
And  pray  them  not  to  quarrel  for  her  sake, 
And  say  she  would  be  little  wife  to  both. 

But  when  the  dawn  of  rosy  childhood  past, 
And  the  new  warmth  of  life's  ascending  sun 
Was  felt  by  either,  either  flxt  his  heart 
On  that  one  girl ;  and  Enoch  spoke  his  love, 
But  Philip  loved  in  silence ;  and  the  girl 
Seem'd  kinder  unto  Philip  than  tq  him ; 
Bat  she  loved  Enoch ;  tho'  she  knew  it  not, 
And  would  if  ask'd  deny  it.    Enoch  set 
A  purpose  evermore  before  his  eyes, 
To  hoard  all  savings  to  the  uttermost, 
To  purchase  his  own  boat,  and  make  a  home 
For  Annie :  and  so  prosper'd  that  at  last 
A  luckier  or  a  bolder  fisherman, 
A  carefuller  in  peril,  did  not  breathe 
For  leagues  along  that  breaker-beaten  coast 
Than  Enoch.    Likewise  had  he  served  a  year 
On  board  a  merchantman,  and  made  himself 
Full  sailor;  and  he  thrice  had  pluck'd  a  life 
From  the  dread  sweep  of  the  down-streaming  seas : 
And  all  men  look'd  upon  him  favorably : 
And  ere  he  tonch'd  his  one-and-twentieth  May, 
He  purchased  his  own  boat,  and  made  a  home 
For  Annie,  neat  and  nestlike,  half-way  up 
The  narrow  street  that  clamber'd  toward  the  mill. 

Then  on  a  golden  autumn  eventide, 
The  younger  people  making  holiday, 
With  bag  and  sack  and  basket,  great  and  small, 
Went  nutting  to  the  hazels,  Philip  stay'd 


(His  father  lying  sick  and  needing  him) 

An  hour  behind  ;  but  as  he  climbed  the  hill, 

Just  where  the  prone  edge  of  the  wood  began 

To  feather  toward  the  hollow,  saw  the  pair, 

Enoch  and  Annie,  sitting  hand-iu-hand, 

Hia  large  gray  eyes  and  weather-beaten  face 

All-kindled  by  a  still  and  sacred  fire, 

That  burned  as  on  an  altar.    Philip  look'd, 

And  in  their  eyes  and  faces  read  his  doom  : 

Then,  as  their  faces  grew  together,  groan'd 

And  slipt  aside,  and  like  a  wounded  life 

Crept  down  into  the  hollows  of  the  wood  ; 

There,  while  the  rest  were  loud  with  merry-making. 

Had  his  dark  hour  unseen,  and  rope  and  past 

Bearing  a  lifelong  burden  in  his  heart. 

So  these  were  wed,  'and  merrily  rang  the  bells, 
And  merrily  ran  the  years,  seven  happy  years, 
Seven  happy  years  of  health  and  competence, 
And  mutual  love  and  honorable  toil; 
With  children  ;  first  a  daughter.    In  him  woke, 
With  his  first  babe's  first  cry,  the  noble  wish 
To  save  all  earnings  to  the  uttermost, 
And  give  his  child  a  better  bringing-up 
Than  his  had  been,  or  hers  ;  a  wish  renew'd, 
When  two  years  after  came  a  boy  to  be 
The  rosy  idol  of  her  solitudes, 
While  Enoch  was  abroad  on  wrathful  seas, 
Or  often  journeying  landward  ;  for  in  truth 
Enoch's  white  horse,  and  Enoch's  ocean-spoil 
In  ocean-smelling  osier,  and  his  face, 
Rough-redden'd  with  a  thousand  winter-gales, 
Not  only  to  the  market-cross  were  known, 
But  in  the  leafy  lanes  behind  the  down, 
Far  as  the  portal-warding  lion-whelp, 
And  peacock-yewtree  of  the  jonely  Hah, 
Whose  Friday  fare  was  Enoch's  ministering. 


came  a  change,  as  all  things  human  change 
Ten  miles  to  northward  of  the  narrow  port 
Open'd  a  larger  haven  :  thither  used 
Enoch  at  times  to  go  by  land  or  sea  ; 
And  once  when  there,  and  clambering  on  a  mast 
In  harbor,  by  mischance  he  slipt  and  fell  : 
A  limb  was  broken  when  they  lifted  him; 
And  while  he  lay  recovering  there,  his  wife 
Bore  him  another  son,  a  sickly  one  : 
Another  hand  crept  too  across  his  trade 
Taking  her  bread  and  theirs:  and  on  him  fell, 
Altho'  a  grave  and  staid  God-fearing  man, 
Yet  lying  thus  inactive,  doubt  and  gloom. 
He  seem'd,  as  in  a  nightmare  of  the  night, 
To  see  his  children  leading  evermore 
Low  miserable  lives  of  hand-to-mouth, 
And  her,  he  loved,  a  beggar:  then  he  pray'd 
"Save  them  from  this,  whatever  comes  to  mc."^~ 
And  while  be  pray'd,  the  master  of  that  ship 
Enoch  had  served  in,  hearing  his  mischance, 
Came,  for  he  knew  the  man  and  valued  him, 
Reporting  of  his  vessel  China-bound, 
And  wanting  yet  a  boatswain.    Would  he  go? 
There  yet  were  many  weeks  before  she  sail'd, 
Sail'd  from  this  port    Would  Enoch  have  the  plactt 
And  Enoch  all  at  once  assented  to  it, 
Rejoicing  at  that  answer  to  his  prayer. 

So  now  that  shadow  of  mischance  appear'd 
No  graver  than  as  when  some   ittle  cloud 


\ 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 


201 


Cuts  off  the  fiery  highway  of  the  sun, 
And  isles  a  light  in  the  offlug :  yet  the  wife  — 
When  he  was  gone  —  the  children  —  what  to  dof 
Then  Enoch  lay  long-poudering  on  his  plans ; 
To  sell  the  boat  —  and  yet  he  loved  her  weli  — 
How  many  a  rough  sea  had  he  weather'd  iu  her . 
He  knew  her,  as  a  horseman  knows  his  horse  — 
And  yet  to  sell  her  —  then  with  what  she  brought 
Buy  goods  and  stores  —  set  Annie  forth  in  trade 
With  all  that  seamen  needed  or  their  wives  — 
So  might  she  keep  the  house  while  he  was  gone. 
Should  he  not  trade  himself  out  yonder?  go 
This  voyage  more  than  once  f  yea  twice  or  thrice  — 
As  oft  as  needed  —  last,  returning  rich, 
Become  the  master  of  a  larger  craft, 
With  fuller  profits  lead  an  easier  iife, 
Have  all  his  pretty  young  ones  educated, 
And  pass  his  days  in  peace  among  his  own. 

Thus  Enoch  in  his  heart  determined  all : 
Then  moving  homeward  came  on  Annie  pale, 
Nursing  the  sickly  babe,  her  latest-born. 
Forward  she  started  with  a  happy  cry, 
And  laid  the  feeble  infant  in  his  arms ; 
Whom  Enoch  took,  and  handled  nil  his  limbs, 
Appraised  his  weight,  and  fondled  fatherlike, 
But  had  no  heart  to  break  his  purposes 
To  Annie,  till  the  morrow,  when  he  spoke. 

Then  first  since  Enoch's  golden  ring  had  girt 
Her  finger,  Annie  fought  against  his  will : 
Yet  not  with  brawling  opposition  she, 
But  manifold  entreaties,  many  a  tear, 
Many  a  sad  kiss  by  day  by  night  renew'd 
(Sure  that  all  evil  would  come  out  of  it) 
Besought  him,  supplicating,  if  he  cared 
For  her  or  his  dear  children,  not  to  go. 
He  not  for  his  own  self  caring  but  her, 
Her  and  her  children,  let  her  plead  in  vain  ; 
So  grieving  held  his  will,  and  bore  it  thro'. 

For  Enoch  parted  with  his  old  sea-friend, 
Bought  Annie  goods  and  stores,  and  set  his  hand 
To  fit  their  little  streetward  sitting-room 
With  shelf  and  corner  for  the  goods  and  stores. 
So  all  day  long  till  Enoch's  last  at  home, 
Shaking  their  pretty  cabin,  hammer  and  axe, 
Anger  and  saw,  while  Annie  seem  d  to  hear 
Her  own  death-scaffoid  rising,  shrill'd  and  rang, 
Till  this  was  ended,  and  his  careful  hand, — 
The  space  was  narrow, —  having  order'd  all 
Almost  as  neat  and  close  as  Nature  packs 
Her  blossom  or  her  seedling,  paused ;  and  he, 
Who  needs  would  work  for  Annie  to  the  last, 
Ascending  tired,  heavily  slept  till  morn. 

And  Enoch  faced  this  morning  ot  farewell 
Brightly  and  boldly.    All  his  Annie's  fears, 
Save  as  his  Annie's,  were  a  laughter  to  him. 
Yet  Enoch  as  a  brave  God-fearing  man 
Bow'd  himself  down,  and  in  that  mystery 
Where  God-iu-man  is  one  with  man-in-God, 
Pray'd  for  a  blessing  on  his  wife  and  babes 
Whatever  came  to  him :  and  then  he  said, 
"  Annie,  this  voyage  by  the  grace  of  God 
Will  bring  fair  weather  yet  to  all  of  ns. 
Keep  a  clean  hearth  and  a  clear  fire  for  me, 
For  I'll  be  back,  my  girl,  before  you  know  it." 
Then  lightly  rocking  baby's  cradle,  "and  he, 
This  pretty,  puny,  weakly  little  one,— 
Nay— for  I  love  him  all  the  better  for  it  — 
God  bless  him,  he  shall  sit  upon  my  knees, 
And  I  will  tell  him  tales  of  foreign  parts, 
And  make  him  merry  when  I  come  home  again. 
Come  Annie,  come,  cheer  up  before  I  go." 

Him  running  on  thus  hopefully  she  heard, 
And  almost  hoped  herself;  but  when  he  turu'd 


The  current  of  his  talk  to  graver  things 

In  sailor  fashion  roughly  sermonizing 

On  providence  and  trust  in  Heaven,  she  heard, 

Heard  and  not  heard  him  ;  as  the  village  girl, 

Who  sets  her  pitcher  underneath  the  spring, 

Musing  on  him  that  used  to  fill  it  for  her, 

Hears  and  not  hears,  and  lets  it  overflow. 

At  length  she  spoke,  "O  Enoch,  you  are  wise; 
And  yet  for  all  your  wisdom  well  know  I 
That  I  shall  look  upon  your  face  no  more." 

"Well  then,"  said  Enoch,  "I  shall  look  on  yours. 
Annie,  the  ship  I  sail  in  passes  here 
(He  named  the  day) ;  get  you  a  seaman's  glass, 
Spy  out  my  face,  and  laugh  at  all  your  fears." 

But  when  the  last  of  those  last  moments  came, 
"Annie,  my  girl,  cheer  up,  be  comforted, 
Look  to  the  babes,  and  till  I  come  again, 
|  Keep  everything  shipshape,  for  I  must  go. 
And  fear  no  more  for  me  ;  or  if  you  fear 
Cast  all  your  cares  on  God ;  that  anchor  holds. 
Is  He  not  yonder  in  those  uttermost 
Parts  of  the  morning  f  if  I  flee  to  these 
Can  I  go  from  Him?  and  the  sea  is  His, 
The  sea  is  His :  He  made  it." 

Enoch  rose, 

Cast,  his  strong  arms  about  his  drooping  wife, 
And  kiss'd  his  wonder-stricken  little  ones; 
But  for  the  third,  the  sickly  one,  -who  slept  • 
After  a  night  of  feverous  wakefuluess, 
When  Annie  would  have  raised  him  Enoch  said, 
"Wake  him  not;  let  him  sleep;  how  should   the 

child 

Remember  this?"  and  kiss'd  him  in  his  cot, 
But  Annie  from  her  baby's  forehead  clipt 
A  tiny  curl,  and  gave  it:  this  he  kept 
Thro'  all  his  future;  but  now  hastily  caught 
His  bundle,  waved  his  hand,  and  went  hie  way. 

She,  when  the  day  that  Enoch  mention'd  came, 
Borrow'd  a  glass,  but  all  in  vain :  perhaps 
She  could  not  fix  the  glass  to  suit  her  eye; 
Perhaps  her  eye  was  dim,  hand  tremulous; 
She  saw  him  not:  and  while  he  stood  on  deck 
Waving,  the  moment  and  the  vessel  past. 

Ev'n  to  the  last  dip  of  the  vanishing  sail 
Shr  watch'd  it,  and  departed  weening  .01  nim-, 
Then,  tho'  she  mourn'd  his  absence  as  his  grave, 
Set  her  sad  will  no  less  to  chime  with  his, 
But  throve  not  in  her  tradel  not  being  bred 
To  barter,  nor  compensating  the  want 
By  shrewdness,  neither  capable  of  lies, 
Nor  asking  overmuch  and  taking  less, 
And  still  foreboding  "What  would  Enoch  say?" 
For  more  than  once,  in  days  of  difficulty 
And  pressure,  had  she  sold  her  wares  for  less 
Than  what  she  gave  in  buying  what  she  sold: 
She  fa'l'd  and  sadden'd  knowing  it;  and  thus, 
Expectant  of  that  news  which  never  came, 
Gain'd  for  her  own  a  scanty  sustenance, 
And  lived  a  life  of  silent  melancholy. 

Now  the  third  child  was  sickly  born  and  grew 
Yet  sicklier,  tho'  the  mother  cared  for  it 
With  all  a  mothers  care:  nevertheless, 
Whether  her  business  often  call'd  her  from  it, 
Or  thro1  the  want  of  what  it  needed  most, 
Or  means  to  pay  the  voice  who  best  could  tell 
What  most  it  needed — howsoe'er  it  was, 
After  a  lingering, — ere  she  was  aware, — 
Like  the  caged  bird  escaping  suddenl 
The  little  innocent  soul  flitted  away. 

In  that  same  week  when  Annie  buried  it. 


202 


ENOCH  AKDEN. 


Philip's  true  heart,  which  hunger'd  for  her  peace 
(Since  Enoch  left  he  had  not  look'd  upon  her), 
Smote  him,  as  having  kept  aloof  so  long. 
"Surely,"  said  Philip,  "I  may  see  her  now, 
May  be  some  little  comfort ;"  therefore  went, 
Past  thro'  the  solitary  room  in  front, 
Paused  for  a  moment  at  au  inner  door, 
Then  struck  it  thrice,  and,  no  one  opening, 
Enter'd ;  but  Annie,  seated  with  her  grief, 
Fresh  from  the  burial  of  her  little  one, 
Cared  not  to  look  on  any  human  face, 
But  turn'd  her  own  toward  the  wall  and  wept. 
Then  Philip  standing  up  said  falteringly, 
"Annie,  I  came  to  ask  a  favor  of  you." 

He  spoke ;  the  passion  in  her  moan'd  reply, 
"Favor  from  one  so  sad  and  so  forlorn 
As  I  am  !"  half  abash'd  him ;  yet  unask'd, 
His  bashfulness  and  tenderness  at  war, 
He  set  himself  beside  her,  saying  to  her: 

"  I  came  to  epeak  to  you  of  what  he  wish'd, 
Enoch,  your  husband :  I  have  ever  said 
You  chose  the  best  among  us  —  a  strong  man  : 
For  where  he  flxt  his  heart  he  set  his  hand 
To  do  the  thing  he  will'd,  and  bore  it  thro'. 
And  wherefore  did  he  go  this  weary  way, 
And  leave  you  lonely?  not  to  see  the  world — 
For  pleasure  f — nay,  but  for  the  wherewithal 
To  give  his  babes  a  better  oringing-up 
Thau  his  had  been,  or  yov.rs  •  that  was  his  wish. 
And  if  he  come  again,  vext  will  he  be 
To  find  the  precious  morning  hours  were  lofcL 
And  it  would  vex  him  even  in  his  grave, 
If  he  could  know  his  babes  were  running  wild 
Like  colts  about  the  waste.    So,  Annie,  now— 
Have  \ve  not  known  each  other  all  our  lives  ? 
I  do  beseech  you  by  the  love  you  bear 
Him  and  his  children  not  to  say  me  nay — 
For,  if  you  will,  when  Enoch  comes  again 
Why  then  he  shall  repay  me — if  you  will, 
Annie — for  I  am  rich  and  well-to-do. 
Now  let  me  put  the  boy  and  girl  to  school  • 
This  is  the  favor  that  I  came  to  ask." 

Then  Annie  with  her  brows  against  the  wall 
Answer'd,  "I  cannot  look  you  in  the  face; 
I  seem  so  foolish  and  so  broken  down ; 
When  you  came  in  my  sorrow  broke  me  down; 
And  now  I  think  your  kindness  breaks  me  down ; 
But  Enoch  lives:  that  is  borne  in  on  me; 
He  will  repay  you :  money  can  be  repaid ; 
Not  kindness  such  as  yours." 

And  Philip  ask'd 
"Then  you  will  let  me,  Annie?" 

There  she  turn'd, 

She  rose,  and  flxt  her  swimming  eyes  upon  him, 
And  dwelt  a  moment  on  his  kindly  face, 
Then  calling  down  a  blessing  on  his  head 
Caught  at  his  hand  and  wrung  it  passionately, 
And  past  into  the  little  garth  beyond. 
So  lifted  up  in  spirit  he  moved  away. 

Then  Philip  put  the  boy  and  girl  to  school, 
And  bought  them  needful  books,  and  every  way, 
Like  one  who  does  his  duty  by  his  own, 
Made  himself  theirs ;  and  tho'  for  Annie's  sake. 
Fearing  the  lazy  gossip  of  the  port, 
He  oft  denied  his  heart  his  dearest  wish, 
And  seldom  crost  her  threshold,  yet  he  sent 
Gifts  by  the  children,  garden-herbs  and  fruit, 
The  late  and  early  roses  from  his  wall, 
Or  conies  from  the  down,  and  now  and  then, 
With  some  pretext  of  fineness  in  the  meal 
To  save  the  offence  of  charitable,  flour 
From  his  tall  mill  that  whistled  on  the  waste. 


But  Philip  did  not  fathom  Annie's  mind : 
Scarce  could  the  woman  when  he  came  upon  her, 
Out  of  full  heart  and  boundless  gratitude 
Light  on  a  broken  word  to  thank  him  with. 
But  Philip  was  her  children's  all-in-all ; 
From  distant  corners  of  the  street  they  ran 
To  greet  his  hearty  welcome  heartily; 
Lords  of  his  house  and  of  his  mill  were  they; 
Worried  his  passive  ear  with  petty  wrongs 
Or  pleasures,  hung  upon  him,  play'd  with  him 
And  call'd  him  Father  Philip.    Philip  gain'd 
As  Enoch  lost ;  for  Enoch  seem'd  to  them 
Uncertain  as  a  vision  or  a  dream, 
Faint  as  a  figure  seen  in  early  dawn 
Down  at  the  far  end  of  an  avenue, 
Going  we  know  not  where ;  and  so  ten  years, 
Since  Enoch  left  his  hearth  and  native  laud, 
Fled  forward,  and  no  news  of  Enoch  came. 

It  chanced  one  evening  Annie's  children  long'd 
To  go  with  others,  nutting  to  the  wood, 
And  Annie  would  go  with  them ;  then  they  begg'd 
For  Father  Philip  (as  they  him  call'd)  too : 
Him,  like  the  working-bee  in  blossom-dust, 
Blanch'd  with  his  mill,  they  found ;  and  saying  to 

him, 

"  Come  with  us,  Father  Philip,"  he  denied ; 
But  when  the  children  pluck'd  at  him  to  go, 
He  laugh'd,  and  yielded  readily  to  their  wish, 
For  was  not  Annie  with  them  ?  and  they  went. 

But  after  scaling  half  the  weary  down, 
Just  where  the  prone  edge  of  the  wood  began 
To  feather  toward  the  hollow,  all  her  force 
Fail'd  her;  and  sighing  "Let  me  rest  "she  said: 
So  Philip  rested  with  her  well-content; 
While  all  the  younger  ones  with  jubilant  cries 
Broke  from  their  elders,  and  tumultuously 
Down  thro'  the  wnitening  hazels  made  a  plunge 
To  the  bottom,  and  dispersed,  and  bent  or  broke 
The  lithe  reluctaut  boughs  to  tear  away 
Their  tawny  clusters,  crying  to  each  other 
And  calling,  here  and  there,  about  the  wood. 

But  Philip  sitting  at  her  side  forgot 
Her  presence,  and  remember'd  one  dark  hour 
Here  in  this  wood,  when  like  a  wounded  life 
He  crept  into  the  shadow :  at  last  he  eaid, 
Lifting  his  bonest  forehead,  "Listen,  Annie, 
How  merry  they  are  down  yonder  in  the  wood." 
"Tired,  Annie?"  for  she  did  not  speak  a  word. 
"  Tired  ?"  but  her  face  had  fall'n  upon  her  hands ; 
At  which,  as  with  a  kind  of  anger  in  him, 
"The  ship  was  lost,"  he  said,  "the  ship  was  lost! 
No  more  of  that !  why  should  you  kill  yourself 
And  make  them  orphans  quite?"     And  Annie  said, 
"I  thought  not  of  it :  but — I  know  not  why — 
Their  voices  make  me  feel  so  solitary." 

Then  Philip  coming  somewhat  closer  spoke. 
"Annie,  there  is  a  thing  upon  my  mind, 
And  it  has  been  upon  my  mind  so  long, 
That  tho'  I  know  not  when  it  first  came  there, 
I  know  that  it  will  out  at  last.    O  Annie, 
It  is  beyond  all  hope,  against  all  chance, 
Tha.t  he  who  left  you  ten  long  years  ago 
Should  still  be  living ;  well  then— let  me  speak  : 
I  grieve  to  see  you  poor  and  wanting  help: 
1  cannot  help  yon  as  I  wish  to  do 
Unless — they  say  that  women  are  so  quick — 
Perhaps  you  know  what  I  would  have  you  know- 
I  wish  you  for  my  wife.    I  fain  would  prove 
A  father  to  your  children:  I  do  think 
They  love  me  as  a  father:  I  am  sure 
That  I  love  them  as  if  they  were  mine  own : 
And  I  believe,  if  you  were  fast  my  wife, 
That  after  all  these  sad  uncertain  years, 
We  might  be  still  as  happy  as  God  grants 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 


203 


To  any  of  His  creatures.    Think  upon  it: 
For  I  am  well-to-do  —  no  kin,  no  care, 
No  burthen,  save  my  care  for  you  and  yonrs ; 
And  we  have  known  each  other  all  our  lives, 
And  I  have  loved  you  longer  than  you  know." 

Then  answer'd  Annie  ;  tenderly  she  spoke  : 
"You  have  been  as  God's  good  angel  in  our  house. 
God  bless  you  for  it,  God  reward  you  for  it, 
Philip,  with  something  happier  than  m3'self. 
Can  one  love  twice  ?  can  you  be  ever  loved 
As  Enoch  was  1  what  is  it  that  you  ask  ?" 
"I  am  content,"  he  auswer'd,  "to  be  loved 
A  little  after  Enoch."    "O,"  she  cried, 
Scared  as  it  were,  "  dear  Philip,  wait  a  while : 
If  Enoch  cornea — but  Enoch  will  not  come  — 
Yet  wait  a  year,  a  year  is  not  so  long: 
Surely  I  shall  be  wiser  in  a  year : 

0  wait  a  little !"    Philip  sadly  said, 
"Annie,  as  I  have  waited  all  my  life 

t  well  may  wait  a  little."    "Nay," she  cried, 
"I  am  bound:  you  have  my  promise  —  in  a  year: 
Will  you  not  bide  your  year  as  I  bide  mine  f" 
And  Philip  answered,  "  I  will  bide  my  year." 

Here  both  were  mute,  till  Philip  glancing  up 
Beheld  the  dead  flame  of  the  fallen  day 
Pass  from  the  Danish  barrow  overhead ; 
Then  fearing  night  and  chill  for  Annie  rose, 
And  sent  his  voice  beneath  him  thro'  the  wood. 
Up  came  the  children  laden  with  their  spoil; 
Then  all  descended  to  the  port,  and  there 
At  Annie's  door  he  paused  and  gave  his  hand, 
Saying  gently,  "  Annie,  when  I  spoke  to  you, 
That  was  your  hour  of  weakness.    I  was  wrong. 

1  am  always  bound  to  you,  but  you  are  free." 
Then  Annie  weeping  answer'd,  "  I  am  bound." 

She  spoke  ;  and  in  one  moment  as  it  were, 
While  yet  she  went  about  her  household  ways, 
Ev'u  as  she  dwelt  upon  his  latest  words, 
That  he  had  loved  her  longer  than  she  knew, 
That  autumn  into  autumn  flash'd  again, 
And  there  he  stood  once  more  before  her  face, 
Claiming  her  promise.    "Is  it  a  year?"  she  ask'd. 
"Yes,  if  the  nuts,"  he  said,  "be  ripe  again: 
Come  out  and  see."    But  she — she  put  him  off— 
So  much  to  look  to — such  a  change — a  month — 
Give  her  a  month— she  knew  that  she  was  bound— 
A  month— no  more.    Then  Philip  with  his  eyes 
Full  of  that  lifelong  hunger,  and  his  voice 
Shaking  a  little  like  a  drunkard's  hand, 
."  Take  your  own  time,  Annie,  take  your  own  time." 
And  Annie  could  have  wept  for  pity  of  him ; 
And  yet  she  held  him  on  delayingly 
With  many  a  scarce-believable  excuse, 
Trying  his  truth  and  his  long-sufferance, 
Till  hali'-another  year  had  slipt  away. 

By  this  the  lazy  gossips  of  the  port, 
Abhorrent  of  a  calculation  crost, 
Began  to  chafe  as  at  a  personal  wrong. 
Some  thought  that  Philip  did  but  trifle  with  her ; 
Some  that  she  but  held  off  to  draw  him  on ; 
And  others  laugh'd  at  her  and  Philip  too, 
As  simple  folk  that  knew  not  their  own  minds; 
And  one,  iu  whom  all  evil  fancies  clung 
Like  serpent  eggs  together,  laughingly 
Would  hint  at  worse  in  either.    Her  own  son 
Was  silent,  tho'  he  often  look'd  his  wish ; 
Bnt  evermore  the  daughter  prest  upon  her 
To  wed  the  man  so  dear  to  all  of  them 
And  lift  the  household  out  of  poverty; 
And  Philip's  rosy  face  contracting  grew 
Careworn  and  wan ;  and  all  these  things  fell  on  her 
Sharp  as  reproach. 

At  last  one  night  it  chanced 
That  Annie  could  not  sleep,  but  earnestly 
Pray'd  for  a  sign,  "  my  Enoch,  is  he  gone  ?" 


Then  compass'd  round  by  the  blind  wall  of  night 
Brook'd  not  the  expectant  terror  of  her  heart. 
Started  from  bed,  and  struck  herself  a  light. 
Then  desperately  seized  the  holy  Book, 
Suddenly  set  it  wide  to  find  a  sign, 
Suddenly  put  her  finger  on  the  text, 
"Under  a  palmtree."    That  was  nothing  to  her: 
No  meaning  there :  she  closed  the  book  and  slept : 
When  lo !  her  Enoch  sitting  on  a  height, 
Under  a  palmtree,  over  him  the  Sun  : 
"He  is  gone," she  thought,  "he  is  happy,  he  is  sing- 
ing 

Hosanna  in  the  highest:  yonder  shines 
The  Sun  of  Righteousness,  and  these  be  palms 
Whereof  the  happy  people  strowiug  cried 
1  Hosauua  in  the  highest  1' "    Here  she  woke, 
Resolved,  sent  for  him  and  said  wildly  to  him, 
"There  is  no  reason  why  we  should  not  wed." 
"Then   for  God's   sake,"  he    answer'd,  "both   out 

sakes, 
So  you  will  wed  me,  let  it  be  at  once." 

So  these  were  wed  and  merrily  rang  the  bells, 
Merrily  rang  the  bells  and  they  were  wed. 
But  never  merrily  beat  Annie's  heart. 
A  footstep  seem'd  to  fall  beside  her  path, 
She  knew  not  whence;  a  whisper  on  her  ear, 
She  knew  not  what ;  nor  loved  she  to  be  left 
Alone  at  home,  nor  ventured  out  alone. 
What  ail'd  her  then,  that  ere  she  enter'd,  ofteu 
Her  hand  dwelt  lingeringly  on  the  latch, 
Fearing  to  enter :  Philip  thought  he  knew : 
Such  doubts  and  fears  were  common  to  her  state, 
Being  with  child :  but  when  her  child  was  born, 
Then  her  new  child  was  as  herself  reuew'd, 
Then  the  new  mother  came  about  her  heart, 
Then  her  good  Philip  was  her  all-in-all, 
And  that  mysterious  instinct  wholly  died. 

And  where  was  Enoch  ?    Prosperously  sail'd 
The  ship  "  Good  Fortune,"  tho'  at  setting  forth 
The  Biscay,  roughly  ridging  eastward,  shook 
And  almost  overwhelm'd  her,  yet  unvext 
She  slipt  across  the  summer  of  the  world, 
Then  after  a  long  tumble  about  the  Cape 
And  frequent  interchange  of  foul  and  fair, 
She  passing  thro'  the  summer  world  again, 
The  breath  of  Heaven  came  continually 
And  sent  her  sweetly  by  the  golden  isles, 
Till  silent  in  her  oriental  haven. 

There  Enoch  traded  for  himself,  and  bought 
Quaint  monsters  for  the  market  of  those  times, 
A  gilded  dragon,  also,  for  the  babes. 

Less  lucky  her  home-voyage :  at  first  indeed 
Thro'  many  a  fair  sea-circle,  day  by  day, 
Scarce-rocking,  her  full-busted  figure-head 
Stared  o'er  the  ripple  feathering  from  her  bows: 
Then  follow'd  calms,  and  then  winds  variable, 
Then  baffling,  a  long  course  of  them ;  and  last 
Storm,  such  as  drove  her  under  moonless  heavens 
Till  hard  upon  the  cry  of  "  breakers  "  came 
The  crash  of  ruin,  and  the  loss  of  all 
But  Enoch  and  two  others.    Half  the  night, 
Buoy'd  upon  floating  tackle  and  broken  spar*, 
These  drifted,  stranding  on  an  isle  at  morn 
Rich,  but  the  loneliest  in  a  lonely  sea. 

No  want  was  there  of  human  sustenance, 
Soft  fruitage,  mighty  nuts  and  nourishing  roots ; 
Nor  save  for  pity  was  it  hard  to  take 
The  helpless  life  so  wild  that  it  was  tame. 
There  in  a  seaward-gazing  mountain-gorge 
They  built,  and  thatch'd  with  leaves  of  palm,  a  huts 
Half  hut,  half  native  cavern.    So  the  three, 
Set  in  this  Eden  of  all  plenteousness, 
Dwelt  with  eternal  summer,  ill-content. 


204 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 


For  one,  the  youngest,  hardly  more  than  boy, 
Hurt  in  that  night  of  sudden  ruin  and  wreck, 
Lay  lingering  out  a  three-years'  death-in-life. 
They  could  not  leave  him.    After  he  was  gone, 
The  two  remaining  found  a  fallen  stem ; 
And  Enoch's  comrade,  careless  of  himself, 
Fire-hollowing  this  in  Indian  fashion,  fell 
Sun-stricken,  and  that  other  lived  alone. 
In  those  two  deaths  he  read  God's  warning  "  wait." 

The  mountain  wooded  to  the  peak,  the  lawns 
And  winding  glades  high  up  like  ways  to  Heaven, 
The  slender  coco's  drooping  crown  of  plumes, 
The  lightning  flash  of  insect  and  of  bird, 
The  lustre  of  the  long  convolvuluses 
That  coil'd  around  the  stately  stems,  and  ran 
Ev'n  to  the  limit  of  the  land,  the  glows 
And  glories  of  the  broad  belt  of  the  world, 
All  these  he  saw ;  but  what  he  fain  had  seen 
He  could  not  see,  the  kindly  human  face, 
Nor  ever  hear  a  kindly  voice,  but  heard 
The  myriad  shriek  of  wheeling  ocean-fowl, 
The  league-long  roller  thundering  on  the  reef, 
The  moving  whisper  of  huge  trees  that  branch 'd 
And  blossom'd  in  the  zenith,  or  the  sweep 
Of  some  precipitous  rivulet  to  the  wave, 
As  down  the  shore  he  ranged,  or  all  day  long 
Sat  often  in  the  seaward-gazing  gorge, 
A  shipwreck'd  sailor,  waiting  for  a  sail: 
No  sail  from  day  to  day,  but  every  day 
The  sunrise  broken  into  scarlet  shafts 
Among  the  palms  and  ferns  and  precipices; 
The  blaze  upon  the  waters  to  the  east ; 
The  blaze  upon  his  island  overhead ; 
The  blaze  upon  the  waters  to  the  west; 
Then   the   great   stars    that   globed  themselves  in 

Heaven, 

The  hollower-bellowing  ocean,  and  again 
The  scarlet  shafts  of  sunrise— but  no  sail. 

There,  often  as  he  watch'd  or  seem'd  to  watch, 
So  still,  the  golden  lizard  on  him  paused, 
A  phantom  made  of  many  phantoms  moved 
Before  him  haunting  him,  or  lie  himself 
Moved  haunting  people,  things  and  places,  known 
Far  in  a  darker  isle  beyond  the  line ; 
The  babes,  their  babble,  Annie,  the  small  house, 
The  climbing  street,  the  mill,  the  leafy  lanes, 
The  peacock-yewtree  and  the  lonely  Hall, 
The  horse  he  drove,  the  boat  he  sold,  the  chill 
November  dawns  and  dewy-glooming  downs, 
The  gentle  shower,  the  smell  of  dying  leaves, 
And  the  low  moan  of  leaden-color'd  seas. 

Once  likewise,  in  the  ringing  of  his  ears, 
Tho'  faintly,  merrily— far  and  far  away — 
He  heard  the  pealing  of  his  parish  bells ; 
Then,  tho'  he  knew  not  wherefore,  started  np 
Shuddering,  and  when  the  beauteous  hateful  isle 
Return'd  upon  him,  had  not  his  poor  heart 
Spoken  with  That,  which  being  everywhere 
Lets  none,  who  speaks  with  Him,  seem  all  alone, 
Surely  the  man  had  died  of  solitude. 

Thus  over  Enoch's  early-silvering  head 
The  sunny  and  rainy  seasons  came  and  went 
Year  after  year.    His  hopes  to  see  his  own, 
And  pace  the  sacred  old  familiar  fields, 
Not  yet  had  perish'd,  when  his  lonely  doom 
Came  suddenly  to  an  end.    Another  ship 
(She  wanted  water)  blown  by  baffling  winds 
Like  the  Good  Fortune,  from  her  destined  course, 
Stay'd  by  this  isle,  not  knowing  where  she  lay ; 
For  since  the  mate  had  seen  at  early  dawn 
Across  a  break  on  the  mist-wreathen  isle 
The  silent  water  slipping  from  the  hills, 
They  sent  a  crew  that  landing  burst  away 
In  search  of  stream  or  fount,  and  fill  d  the  shores 


With  clamor.    Downward  from  his  mountain  gorge 

Slept  the  long-haired  long-bearded  solitary, 

Brown,  looking  hardly  human,  strangely  clad, 

Muttering  and  mumbling,  idiotlike  it  seem'd, 

With  inarticulate  rage,  and  making  signs 

They  knew  not  what:  and  yet  he  led  the  way 

To  where  the  rivnlets  of  sweet  water  ran  ; 

And  ever  as  he  mingled  with  the  crew, 

And  heard  them  talking,  his  loug-bounden  tongue 

Was  loosen'd,  till  he  made  them  understand  : 

Whom,  when  their  casks  were  flll'd  they  took  aboard, 

And  there  the  tale  he  utter'd  brokenly, 

Scarce  credited  at  first  but  more  and  more, 

Amazed  and  melted  all  who  listen'd  to  it : 

And  clothes  they  gave  him  and  free  passage  home! 

But  oft  he  work'd  among  the  rest  and  shook 

His  isolation  from  him.    None  of  these 

Came  from  his  county,  or  could  answer  him, 

If  questiou'd,  aught  of  what  he  cared  to  know. 

And  dull  the  voyage  was  with  long  delays, 

The  vessel  scarce  sea-worthy ;  but  evermore 

His  fancy  fled  before  the  lazy  wind 

Returning,  till  beneath  a  clouded  moon 

He  like  a  lover  down  thro'  all  his  blood 

Drew  in  the  dewy  meadowy  morning-breath 

Of  England,  blown  across  her  ghostly  wall: 

And  that  same  morning  officers  and  men 

Levied  a  kindly  tax  upon  themselves, 

Pitying  the  lonely  man,  and  gave  him  it: 

Then  moving  up  the  coast  they  landed  him, 

Ev'n  in  that  harbor  whence  he  sail'd  before. 

There  Enoch  spoke  no  word  to  any  one, 
But  homeward, — home, — what  home?  had  he  a  home? 
His  home  he  walk'd.     Bright  was  that  afternoon, 
Sunny  but  chill;  till  drawn  thro'  either  chasm, 
Where  either  haven  open'd  on  the  deeps, 
Roll'd  a  sea-haze  and  whelm'd  the  world  in  gray ; 
Cut  off  the  length  of  highway  on  before, 
And  left  but  narrow  breadth  to  left  and  right 
Of  wither'd  holt  or  tilth  or  pasturage. 
On  the  nigh-naked  tree  the  Robin  piped 
Disconsolate,  and  thro'  the  dripping  haze 
The  dead  weight  of  the  dead  leaf  bore  it  down. 
Thicker  the  drizzle  grew,  deeper  the  gloom ; 
Last,  as  it  eeem'd,  a  great  mist-blotted  light 
Flared  on  him,  and  he  came  upon  the  place. 

Then  down  the  long  street  having  slowly  stolen. 
His  heart  foreshadowing  all  calamity, 
His  eyes  upon  the  stones,  he  reach'd  the  home 
Where  Annie  lived  and  loved  him,  and  his  babes 
In  those  far-off  seven  happy  years  were  born ; 
But  finding  neither  light  nor  murmur  there 
(A  bill  of  sale  gleam'd  thro'  the  drizzle)  crept 
Still  downward  thinking  "  dead  or  dead  to  me !" 

Down  to  the  pool  and  narrow  wharf  he  went, 
Seeking  a  tavern  which  of  old  he  knew, 
A  front  of  timber-crost  antiquity, 
So  propt,  worm-eaten,  ruinously  old. 
He  thought  it  must  have  gone;  but  he  was  gone 
Who  kept  it :  and  his  widow,  Miriam  Lane, 
With  daily-dwindling  proflts  held  the  house  ; 
A  haunt  of  brawling  seamen  once,  but  now 
Stiller,  with  yet  a  bed  for  wandering  men. 
There  Enoch  rested  silent  many  days. 

But  Miriam  Lane  was  good  and  garrulous, 
Nor  let  him  be,  but  often  breaking  in, 
Told  him,  with  other  annals  of  the  port, 
Not  knowing— Enoch  was  so  brown,  so  bow'd, 
So  broken— all  the  story  of  his  house. 
His  baby's  death,  her  growing  poverty, 
How  Philip  put  her  little  ones  to  school, 
And  kept  them  in  it,  his  long  wooing  her, 
Her  slow  consent,  and  marriage,  and  the  birth 
Of  Philip's  child:  and  o'er  his  countenance 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 


205 


Mo  shadow  past,  nor  motion ;  any  one, 
Regarding,  well  had  deem'd  he  felt  the  tale 
Less  than  the  teller:  only  when  she  closed, 
''Enoch,  poor  man,  was  cast  away  and  lost," 
He,  shaking  his  gray  head  pathetically, 
Repeated  muttering  "  Cast  away  and  lost ;" 
Again  in  deeper  inward  whispers  "Lost!" 

But  Enoch  yearn'd  to  see  her  face  again ; 
"  If  I  might  look  on  her  sweet  face  again 
And  know  that  she  is  happy."    So  the  thought 
Haunted  and  harass'd  him,  and  drove  him  forth 
At  evening  when  the  dull  November  day 
Was  growing  duller  twilight,  to  the  hill. 
There  he  sat  down  gazing  on  all  below: 
There  did  a  thousand  memories  roll  upon  him, 
Unspeakable  for  sadness.    By  and  by 
The  ruddy  square  of  comfortable  light, 
Far-blazing  from  the  rear  of  Philip's  house, 
Allured  him,  as  the  beacon-blaze  allures 
The  bird  of  passage,  till  he  madly  strikes 
Against  it,  and  beats  out  his  weary  life. 
I 

For  Philip's  dwelling  fronted  on  the  street, 
The  latest  house  to  landward;  but  behind, 
With  one  small  gate  that  open'd  on  the  waste, 
Flourished  a  little  garden  square  and  wall'd: 
And  in  it  throve  an  ancient  evergreen, 
A  yewtree,  and  all  round  it  ran  a  walk 
Of  shingle,  and  a  walk  divided  it : 
But  Enoch  shuuu'd  the  middle  walk  and  stole 
Up  by  the  wall,  behind  the  yew ;  and  thence 
That  which  he  better  might  have  shuuu'd,  if  griefs 
Like  his  have  worse  or  better,  Enoch  saw. 

For  cups  and  silver  on  the  burnish'd  board 
Sparkled  and  shone ;  so  genial  was  the  he.-irth ; 
And  on  the  right  hand  of  the  hearth  he  saw 
Philip,  the  slighted  suitor  of  old  times, 
Stout,  rosy,  with  his  babe  across  his  knees ; 
And  o'er  her  second  father  stoopt  a  girl, 
A  later  but  a  loftier  Annie  Lee, 
Fair-hair'd  and  tall,  and  from  her  lifted  hand 
Dangled  a  length  of  ribbon  and  a  ring 
To  tempt  the  babe,  who  rear'd  his  creasy  arms, 
Caught  at  and  ever  miss'd  it,  and  they  laugh'd : 
And  on  the  left  hand  of  the  hearth  he  saw 
The  mother  glancing  often  toward  her  babe, 
But  turning  now  and  theu  to  speak  with  him, 
Her  son,  who  stood  beside  her  tall  and  strong, 
And  saying  that  which  pleased  him,  for  he  smiled. 

Now  when  the  dead  man  come  to  life  beheld 
His  wife  his  wife  no  more,  and  saw  the  babe 
Hers,  yet  not  his,  upon  the  father's  knee, 
And  all  the  warmth,  the  peace,  the  happiness, 
And  his  own  children  tall  and  beautiful, 
And  him,  that  other,  reigning  in  his  place, 
Lord  of  his  rights  and  of  his  children's  love,— 
Then  he,  tho1  Miriam  Lane  had  told  him  all, 
Because  things  seen  are  mightier  than  things  heard, 
Stagger'd  and  shook,  holding  the  branch,  and  fear'd 
To  send  abroad  a  shrill  and  terrible  cry, 
Which  in  one  moment,  like  the  blast  of  doom, 
Would  shatter  all  the  happiness  of  the  hearth. 

He  therefore  turning  softly  like  a  thief, 
Lest  the  harsh  shingle  should  grate  underfoot, 
And'  feeling  all  along  the  garden-wall, 
Lest  he  should  swoon  and  tumble  and  be  found, 
Crept  to  the  gate,  and  open'd  it,  and  closed, 
As  lightly  as  a  sick  man's  chamber-door, 
Behind  him,  and  came  out  upon  the  waste. 

And   there   he   would  have   knelt,  but   that   hi* 

knees 

Were  feeble,  so  that  falling  prone  he  due 
His  fingers  into  the  wet  earth,  and  pray'd. 


" Too  hard  to  bear !  why  did  they  take  me  thence? 

0  God  Almighty,  blessed  Saviour,  Thou 
That  didst  uphold  me  on  my  lonely  isle, 
Uphold  me,  Father,  in  my  loneliness 

A  little  longer!  aid  me,  give  me  strength 
Not  to  tell  her,  never  to  let  her  know. 
Help  me  not  to  break  in  upon  her  peace. 
My  children  too !  must  I  not  speak  to  these  ? 
They  know  me  not.    I  should  betray  myself. 
Never :  no  father's  kiss  for  me, —  the  girl 
So  like  her  mother,  and  the  boy,  my  son." 

There  speech  and  thought  and  nature  fail'd  a  little, 
Aud  he  lay  tranced :  but  when  he  rose  and  paced 
Back  toward  his  solitary  home  again, 
All  down  the  long  and  narrow  street  he  went 
Beating  it  in  upon  his  weary  brain, 
As  tho'  it  were  the  burthen  of  a  song, 
"  Not  to  tell  her,  never  to  let  her  know." 

He  was  not  all  unhappy.    His  resolve 
Upbore  him,  and  firm  faith,  and  evermore 
Prayer  from  a  living  source  within  the  will, 
And  beating  up  thro'  all  the  bitter  world, 
Like  fountains  of  sweet  water  in  the  sea, 
Kept  him  a  living  soul.    "This  miller's  wife," 
He  said  to  Miriam,  "that  you  told  me  of, 
Has  she  no  fear  that  her  first  husband  lives?" 
"Ay,  ay,  poor  soul,"  said  Miriam,  "fear  enow! 
If  you  could  tell  her  you  had  seen  him  dead, 
Why,  that  would  be  her  comfort :"  and  he  thought 
"After  the  Lord  has  call'd  me  she  shall  know, 

1  wait  His  time,"  and  Enoch  set  himself, 
Scorning  an  alms,  to  work  whereby  to  live. 
Almost  to  all  things  could  he  turn  his  hand. 
Cooper  he  was  and  carpenter,  and  wrought 
To  make  the  boatmen  fishing-nets,  or  belp'd 
At  lading  and  unlading  the  tall  barks, 

That  brought  the  stinted  commerce  of  those  days  * 
Thus  earu'd  a  scanty  living  for  himself: 
Yet  since  he  did  but  labor  for  himself, 
Work  without  hope,  there  was  not  life  in  it 
Whereby  the  man  could  live ;  and  as  the  year 
Roll'd  itself  round  again  to  meet  the  day 
When  Enoch  had  return'd,  a  languor  came 
Upon  him,  gentle  sickness,  gradually 
Weakening  the  man,  till  he  could  do  no  more, 
But  kept  the  house,  his  chair,  and  last  his  bed. 
And  Enoch  bore  his  weakness  cheerfully. 
For  sure  no  gladlier  does  the  stranded  wreck 
See  thro'  the  gray  skirts  of  a  lifting  squall 
The  boat  that  bears  the  hope  of  life  approach 
To  save  the  life  despair'd  of,  than  he  saw 
Death  dawning  on  him,  and  the  close  of  all. 

For  thro'  that  dawning  gleam'd  a  kindlier  hope 
On  Enoch  thinking,  "After  I  am  gone, 
Theu  may  she  learn  I  loved  her  to  the  last." 
He  call'd  aloud  for  Miriam  Lane  and  said, 
"Woman,  I  have  a  secret — only  swear, 
Before  I  tell  you — swear  upon  the  book 
Not  to  reveal  it,  till  you  see  me  dead." 
"  Dead,"  clamor'd  the  good  woman,  "  hear  him  talk  1 
I  warrant,  man,  that  we  shall  bring  yon  round." 
"Swear,"  added  Enoch  sternly,  "on  the  book." 
And  on  the  book,  half-frighted,  Miriam  swore. 
Then  Enoch  rolling  his  gray  eyes  upon  her, 
"Did  you  know  Enoch  Arden  of  this  town?" 
"Know  him?"  she  said,  "I  knew  him  far  away. 
Ay,  ay,  I  mind  him  coming  down  the  street: 
Held  his  head  high,  and  cared  for  no  man,  he." 
Slowly  and  sadly  Enoch  answer'd  her; 
"  His  head  is  low,  and  no  man  cares  for  him. 
I  think  I  have  not  three  days  more  to  live; 
I  am  the  man."    At  which  the  woman  gave 
A  half-incredulous,  half-hysterical  cry. 
"You  Arden,  you!  nay, — sure  he  was  a  foot 
Higher  than  you  be."    Enoch  said  again, 


20G 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 


"My  God  has  bow'd  me  down  to  what  I  am; 
My  grief  and  solitude  have  broken  me ; 
Nevertheless,  know  you  that  I  am  he 
Who    married  —  but    that    name    has    twice    been 

changed — 

I  married  her  who  married  Philip  Ray. 
Sit,  listen."    Then  he  told  her  of  his  voyage, 
His  wreck,  his  lonely  life,  his  coming  back, 
His  gazing  in  on  Annie,  his  resolve, 
And  how  he  kept  it.    As  the  woman  heard, 
Fast  flow'd  the  current  of  her  easy  tears, 
While  in  her  heart  she  yearn'd  incessantly 
To  rush  abroad  all  round  the  little  haven, 
Proclaiming  Enoch  Ardeu  and  his  woes; 
But  awed  and  promise-bounden  she  forbore, 
Saying  only,  "  See  your  bairns  before  you  go ! 
Eh,  let  me  fetch  'em,  Arden,"  and  arose 
Eager  to  bring  them  down,  for  Enoch  hung 
A  moment  on  her  words,  but  then  replied: 

"Woman,  disturb  me  not  now  at  the  last, 
But  let  me  hold  my  purpose  till  I  die. 
Sit  down  again;  mark  me  and  understand, 
While  I  have  power  to  speak.    I  charge  you  now, 
When  you  shall  see  her,  tell  her  that  I  died 
Blessing  her,  praying  for  her,  loving  her; 
Save  for  the  bar  between  us,  loving  her 
As  when  she  laid  her  head  beside  my  own. 
And  tell  my  daughter  Annie,  whom  I  saw 
So  like  her  mother,  that  my  latest  breath 
Was  spent  in  blessing  her  and  praying  for  her. 
And  tell  my  son  that  I  died  blessing  him. 
And  say  to  Philip  that  I  blest  him  too ; 


He  never  meant  us  anything  but  good. 
But  if  my  children  care  to  see  me  dead, 
Who  hardly  knew  me  living,  let  them  come, 
I  am  their  father;  but  she  must  not  come, 
For  my  dead  face  would  vex  her  after-life. 
And  now  there  is  but  one  of  all  my  blood, 
Who  will  embrace  me  in  the  world-to-be : 
This  hair  is  his :  she  cut  it  off  and  gave  it, 
And  I  have  borne  it  with  me  all  these  years, 
And  thought  to  bear  it  with  me  to  my  grave : 
But  now  my  mind  is  changed,  for  I  shall  see  him, 
My  babe  in  bliss:  wherefore  when  I  am  gone, 
Take,  give  her  this,  for  it  may  comfort  her ; 
It  will  moreover  be  a  token  to  her 
That  I  am  he." 

He  ceased;  and  Miriam  Lane 
Made  such  a  voluble  answer  promising  all, 
That  once  again  he  roll'd  his  eyes  upon  her 
Repeating  all  he  wish'd,  and  once  again 
She  promised. 

Then  the  third  night  after  this, 
While  Enoch  slumber'd  motionless  and  pale, 
And  Miriam  watch'd  and  dozed  at  intervals, 
There  came  so  loud  a  calling  of  the  sea, 
That  all  the  houses  in  the  haven  rang. 
He  woke,  he  rose,  he  spread  his  arms  abroad 
Crying  with  a  loud  voice  "A  sail!  a  sail! 
I  am  saved;''  and  so  fell  back  and  spoke  no  more. 

So  past  the  strong  heroic  soul  away. 
And  when  they  buried  him  the  little  port 
Had  seldom  seen  a  costlier  funeral. 


AYLMER'S  FIELD. 


207 


ADDITIONAL    POEMS. 


AYLMER'S  FIELD. 

1193. 

DCST  are  our  frames;  and,  gilded  dust,  our  pride 
Looks  only  for  a  moment  whole  and  sound; 
Like  that  long-buried  body  of  the  king, 
Found  lying  with  his  urns  and  ornaments, 
Which  at  a  touch  of  Hght,  an  air  of  heaven, 
Slipt  into  ashes  and  was  found  no  more. 

Here  is  a  story  which  in  rougher  shape 
Came  from  a  grizzled  cripple,  whom  I  saw 
Sunning  himself  in  a  waste  field  alone — 
Old,  and  a  mine  of  memories — who  had  served, 
Long  since,  a  bygone  Rector  of  the  place, 
And  been  himself  a  part  of  what  he  told. 

Stit  AYLMER  AYLMER,  that  almighty  man, 
The  county  God— in  whose  capacious  hall, 
Hung  with  a  hundred  shields,  the  family  tree 
Sprang  from  the  midriff  of  a  prostrate  king — 
Whose  blazing  wyvern  weathercock'd  the  spire, 
Stood  from  his  walls  and  wing'd  his  entry-gates 
And  swang  besides  on  many  a  windy  sign — 
Whose  eyes  from  under  a  pyramidal  head 
Saw  from  his  windows  nothing  save  his  own — 
What  lovelier  of  his  own  had  he  than  her, 
His  only  child,  his  Edith,  whom  he  loved 
As  heiress  and  not  heir  regretfully  ? 
But  "he  that  marries  her  marries  her  name" 
This  fiat  somewhat  soothed  himself  and  wife, 
His  wife  a  faded  beauty  of  the  Baths, 
Insipid  as  the  queen  upon  a  card ; 
Her  all  of  thought  and  bearing  hardly  more 
Than  his  own  shadow  in  a  sickly  sun. 

A  land  of  hops  and  poppy-mingled  corn, 
Little  about  it  stirring  save  a  brook ! 
A  sleepy  laud  where  under  the  same  wheel 
The  same  old  rut  would  deepen  year  by  year; 
Where  almost  all  the  village  had  one  name ; 
Where  Aylmer  followed  Aylmer  at  the  Hall 
And  Averill  Averill  at  the  Rectory 
Thrice  over:  so  that  Rectory  and  Hall, 
Bound  in  an  immemorial  intimacy, 
Were  open  to  each  other;  tho'  to  dream 
That  Love  could  bind  them  closer  well  had  made 
The  hoar  hair  of  the  Baronet  bristle  up 
With  horror,  worse  than  had  he  heard  his  priest 
Preach  an  inverted  scripture,  sons  of  men 
Daughters  of  God ;  so  sleepy  was  the  land. 

And  might  not  Averill,  had  he  will'd  it  so, 
Somewhere  beneath  his  own  low  range  of  roofs, 
Have  also  set  his  many-shielded  tree  ? 
There  was  an  Aylmer-Averill  marriage  once, 
When  the  red  rose  was  redder  than  itself, 
And  York's  white  rose  as  red  as  Lancaster's, 
With  wounded   peace  which  each  had  prick'd   to 

death. 

"Not  proven,"  Averill  said,  or  laughingly, 
"  Some  other  race  of  Averills  "— prov'n  or  no, 
What  cared  he?  what,  if  other  or  the  same? 
He  lean'd  not  on  his  fathers  but  himself. 
But  Leolin,  his  brother,  living  oft 


With  Averill,  and  a  year  or  two  before 
Call'd  to  the  bar,  but  ever  call'd  away 
By  one  low  voice  to  one  dear  neighborhood, 
Would  often,  in  his  walks  with  Edith,  claim 
A  distant  kinship  to  the  gracious  blood 
That  shook  the  heart  of  Edith  hearing  him. 

Sanguine  he  was :  a  but  less  vivid  hue 
Than  of  that  islet  in  the  chestnut-bloom 
Flamed  in  his  cheek :  and  eager  eyes,  that  still 
Took  joyful  note  of  all  things  joyful,  beam'd 
Beneath  a  manelike  mass  of  rolling  gold, 
I  Their  best  and  brightest,  when  they  dwelt  on  hers, 
Edith,  whose  pensive  beauty,  perfect  else, 
But  subject  to  the  season  or  the  mood, 
Shone  like  a  mystic  star  between  the  less 
And  greater  glory  varying  to  and  fro, 
We  know  not  wherefore ;  bounteously  made, 
And  yet  so  finely,  that  a  troublous  touch 
!  Thinu'd,  or  would  seem  to  thin  her  in  a  day, 
i  A  joyous  to  dilate,  as  toward  the  light. 
>  And  these  had  been  together  from  the  first, 
1  Leolin's  first  nurse  was,  five  years  after,  hers: 
1  So  much  the  boy  foreran  ;  but  when  his  date 
Doubled  her  own,  for  want  of  playmates,  he 
(Since  Averill  was  a  decade  and  a  half 
His  elder,  and  their  parents  underground) 
I  Had  tost  his  ball  and  flown  his  kite,  and  roll'd 
His  hoop  to  pleasure  Edith,  with  her  dipt 
Against  the  rush  of  the  air  in  the  prone  swing, 
Made  blossom-ball  or  daisy-chain,  arranged 
1  Her  garden,  sow'd  her  name  and  kept  it  green 
In  living  letters,  told  her  fairy-tales, 
Show'd  her  the  fairy  footings  on  the  grass, 
The  little  dells  of  cowslip,  fairy  palms, 
The  petty  marestail  forest,  fairy  pines, 
Or  from  the  tiny  pitted  target  Mew 
What  look'd  a  flight  of  fairy  arrows  aim'd 
All  at  one  mark,  all  hitting :  make-believes 
!  For  Edith  and  himself:  or  else  he  forged, 
But  that  was  later,  boyish  histories 
Of  battle,  bold  adventure,  dungeon,  wreck, 
Flights,  terrors,  snclden  rescues,  and  true  love 
Crown'd  after  trial;  sketches  rude  and  faint, 
But  where  a  passion  yet  unborn  perhaps 
Lay  hidden  as  the  music  of  the  moon 
Sleeps  in  the  plain  eggs  of  the  nightingale. 
And  thus  together,  save  for  college-times 
Or  Temple-eaten  terms,  a  couple,  fair 
As  ever  painter  painted,  poet  sang, 
Or  Heav'n  in  lavish  bounty  moulded,  grew. 
And  more  and  more,  the  maiden  woman-grown, 
He  wasted  hours  with  Averill  ;  there,  when  first 
The  tented  winter-field  was  broken  up 
Into  that  phalanx  of  the  summer  spears 
That  soon  should  wear  the  garland ;  there  again 
When  burr  and  bine  were  gather'd ;  lastly  there 
At  Christmas;  ever  welcome  at  the  Hall, 
On  whose  dull  sameness  his  full  tide  of  youth 
Broke  with  a  phosphorescence  cheering  even 
My  lady ;  and  the  Baronet  yet  had  laid 
No  bar  between  them:  dull  and  self-involved, 
Tall  and  erect,  but  bending  from  his  height 
With  half-allowing  smiles  for  all  the  world, 
And  mighty  courteous  in  the  main— his  pride 


208 


AYLMER'S  FIELD. 


Lay  deeper  than  to  wear  it  as  his  ring — 

He,  like  au  Aylmer  in  his  Aylmerism, 

Would  care  110  more  for  Leolin's  walking  with  her 

Thau  for  his  old  Newfoundland's,  when  they  ran 

To  loose  him  at  the  stables,  for  he  rose 

Twofooted  at  the  limit  of  his  chain, 

Roariug  to  make  a  third:  and  how  should  Love, 

Whom  the  cross-lightnings  of  four  chauce-tnet  eyes 

Flash  into  fiery  life  from  nothing,  follow 

Such  dear  familiarities  of  dawn  ? 

Seldom,  but  when  he  does,  Master  of  all. 

So  these  young  hearts  not  knowing  that  they  loved, 
Not  she  at  least,  nor  conscious  of  a  bar 
Between  them,  nor  by  plight  or  broken  ring 
Bound,  but  an  immemorial  intimacy, 
Wander'd  at  will,  but  oft  accompanied 
By  Averill:  his,  a  brother's  love,  that  hung 
With  wings  of  brooding  shelter  o'er  her  peace, 
Might  have  been  other,  save  for  Leolin's— 
Who  knows  f  but  so  they  wauder'd,  hour  by  hour 
Gather'd  the  blossom  that  rebloom'd,  and  drank 
The  magic  cup  that  flll'd  itself  anew. 

A  whisper  half  reveal'd  her  to  herself. 
For  out  beyond  her  lodges,  where  the  brook 
Vocal,  with  here  and  there  a  silence,  ran 
By  sallowy  rims,  arose  the  laborers'  homes, 
A  frequent  haunt  of  Edith,  on  low  knolls 
That  dimpling  died  into  each  other,  huts 
At  random  scatter'd,  each  a  nest  in  bloom. 
Her  art,  her  hand,  her  counsel  all  had  wrought 
About  them :  here  was  one  that,  summer-blauch'd, 
Was  parcel-bearded  with  the  traveller's-joy 
In  Autumn,  parcel  ivy-ciad ;  and  here 
The  warm-blue  breathings  of  a  hidden  hearth 
Broke  from  a  bower  of  vine  and  honeysuckle : 
One  look'd  all  rosetree,  and  another  wore 
A  close-set  robe  of  jasmine  sown  with  stars : 
This  had  a  rosy  sea  of  gillyflowers 
About  it;  this  a  milky-way  on  earth, 
Like  visions  in  the  Northern  dreamer's  heavens, 
A  lily-avenue  climbing  to  the  doors; 
One,  almost  to  the  martin-haunted  eaves 
A  summer  burial  deep  in  hollyhocks; 
Each,  its  own  charm ;  and  Edith's  everywhere ; 
And  Edith  ever  visitant  with  him, 
He  but  less  loved  than  Edith,  of  her  poor: 
For  she — so  lowly-lovely  and  so  loving, 
Queenly  responsive  when  the  loyal  band 
Rose  from  the  clay  it  work'd  in  as  she  past, 
Not  sowing  hedgerow  texts  and  passing  by, 
Nor  dealing  goodly  counsel  from  a  height 
That  makes  the  lowest  hate  it,  but  a  voice 
Of  comfort  and  an  open  hand  of  help, 
A  splendid  presence  flattering  the  poor  roofs 
Revered  as  theirs,  but  kindlier  than  themselves 
To  ailing  wife  or  wailing  infancy 
Or  old  bedridden  palsy, — was  adored ; 
He,  loved  for  her  and  for  himself.    A  grasp 
Having  the  warmth  and  muscle  of  the  heart, 
A  childly  way  with  children,  and  a  laugh 
Ringing  like  proven  golden  coinage  true, 
Were  no  false  passport  to  that  easy  realm, 
Where  once  with  Leolin  at  her  side  the  girl, 
Nursing  a  child,  and  turning  to  the  warmth 
The  tender  pink  five-beaded  baby-soles, 
Heard  the  good  mother  softly  whisper  "Bless, 
God  bless  'em;  marriages  are  made  in  Heaven." 

A  flash  of  semi-jealousy  clear'd  it  to  her. 
My  Lady's  Indian  kinsman  unannounced 
With  half  a  score  of  swarthy  faces  came. 
His  own,  tho'  keen  and  bold  and  soldierly, 
Sear'1  by  the  close  ecliptic,  was  not  fair; 
Fairer  his  talk,  a  tongue  that  ruled  the  hour, 
Tho'  seeming  boastful :  so  when  first  he  dash'd 
Into  the  chronicle  of  a  deedful  day, 


Sir  Aylmer  half  forgot  his  lazy  smile 

Of  patron  "Good!  my  lady's  kinsman!  good!" 

My  lady  with  her  fingers  interlock'd, 

And  rotatory  thumbs  on  silken  knees, 

Call'd  all  her  vital  spirits  into  each  ear 

To  listen :  unawares  they  flitted  off, 

Busying  themselves  about  the  flowerage 

That  stood  from  out  a  stiff  brocade  in  which, 

The  meteor  of  a  splendid  season,  she, 

Once  with  this  kinsman,  ah  so  long  ago, 

Stept  thro'  the  stately  minuet  of  those  days : 

But  Edith's  eager  fancy  hurried  with  him 

Snatch'd  thro'  the  perilous  passes  of  his  life  i 

Till  Leolin  ever  watchful  of  her  eye 

Hated  him  with  a  momentary  hate. 

Wife-hunting,  as  the  rumor  ran,  was  he: 

I  know  not,  for  he  spoke  not,  only  shower'd 

His  oriental  gifts  on  every  one 

And  most  on  Edith :  like  a  storm  he  came, 

And  shook  the  house,  and  like  a  storm  he  went. 

Among  the  gifts  he  left  her  (possibly 
He  flow'd  and  ebb'd  uncertain,  to  return 
When  others  had  been  tested)  there  was  one, 
A  dagger,  in  rich  sheath  with  jewels  on  it 
Sprinkled  about  in  gold  that  branch'd  itself 
Fine  as  ice- ferns  on  January  panes 
Made  by  a  breath.    I  know  not  whence  at  first, 
Nor  of  what  race,  the  work ;  but  as  he  told 
The  story,  storming  a  hill-fort  of  thieves 
He  got  it;  for  their  captain  after  fight, 
His  comrades  having  fought  their  last  below, 
Was  climbing  up  the  valley;  at  whom  he  shot: 
Down  from  the  beetling  crag  to  which  he  clung 
Tumbled  the  tawny  rascal  at  his  feet, 
This  dagger  with  him,  which  when  now  admired 
By  Edith  whom  his  pleasure  was  to  please, 
At  once  the  costly  Sahib  yielded  to  her. 

And  Leolin,  coming  aftar  he  was  gone, 
Tost  over  all  her  presents  petulantly: 
And  when  she  show'd  the  wealthy  scabbard,  saying 
"Look  what  a  lovely  piece  of  workmanship!" 
Slight  was  his  answer  "Well— I  care  not  for  it:" 
Then  playing  with  the  blade  he  prick'd  his  hand, 
"A  gracious  gift  to  give  a  lady,  this  !" 
"But  would  it  be  more  gracious,"  ask'd  the  gill, 
"  Were  I  to  give  this  gift  of  his  to  one 
That  is  no  lady  ?"    "  Gracious  ?    No,"  said  he. 
"Me? — but  I  cared  not  for  it.    O  pardon  me, 
I  seem  to  be  ungraciousness  itself." 
"  Take  it,"  she  added  sweetly,  "  tho'  his  gift ; 
For  I  am  more  ungracious  ev'n  than  you, 
I  care  not  for  it  either;"  and  he  said 
"Why  then  I  love  it:"  but  Sir  Aylmer  past, 
And  neither  loved  nor  liked  the  thing  he  heard. 

The  next  day  came  a  neighbor.    Blues  and  reds 
They  talk'd  of:  blues  were  sure  of  it,  he  thought: 
Then  of  the  latest  fox — where  started— kill'd 
In  such  a  bottom:  "Peter  had  the  brush, 
My  Peter,  first:"  and  did  Sir  Aylmer  know 
That  great  pock-pUteu  fellow  had  been  caught? 
Then  made  his  pleasure  echo,  hand  to  hand, 
And  rolling  as  it  were  the  substance  of  it 
Between  his  palms  a  moment  up  and  down — 
"The  birds  were  warm,  the  birds  were  warm  upon 

him ; 

We  have  him  now:"  and  had  Sir  Aylmer  heard — 
Nay,  but  he  must— the  land  was  ringing  of  it— 
This  blacksmith-border  marriage — one  they  knew— 
Raw  from  the  nursery— who  could  trust  a  child? 
That  cursed  France  with  her  egalities  ! 
And  did  Sir  Aylmer  (deferentially 
With  nearing  chair  and  lower'd  accent)  think — 
For  people  talk'd — that  it  was  wholly  wise 
To  let  that  handsome  fellow  Averill  walk 
So  freely  with  his  daughter?  people  talk'd — 


AYLMER'S  FIELD. 


209 


The  boy  might  get  a  notion  into  him ; 

The  girl  might  be  entangled  ere  she  knew. 

Sir  Aylmer  slowly  stiffening  spoke: 

"  The  girl  and  boy,  Sir,  know  their  differences  !" 

"  Good,"  said    his    friend,    "  but   watch !"   and   he 

"  enough, 

More  than  enough,  Sir  !    I  can  guard  my  own." 
They  parted,  and  Sir  Aylmer  Aylmer  watch'd. 

Pale,  for  on  her  the  thunders  of  the  house 
Had  fallen  first,  was  Edith  that  same  night: 
Pale  as  the  Jephtha's  daughter,  a  rough  piece 
Of  early  rigid  color,  under  which 
Withdrawing  by  the  counter  door  to  that 
Which  Leolin  open'd,  she  cast  back  upon  him 
A  piteous  glance,  and  vanish'd.    He,  as  one 
Caught  in  a  burst  of  unexpected  storm, 
And  pelted  with  outrageous  epithets, 
Turning  beheld  the  Powers  of  the  House 
On  either  side  the  hearth,  indignant ;  her, 
Cooling  her  false  cheek  with  a  feather-fan, 
Him  glaring,  by  his  own  stale  devil  spurr'd, 
And,  like  a  beast  hard-ridden,  breathing  hard. 
"Ungenerous,  dishonorable,  base, 
Presumptuous !  trusted  as  he  was  with  her, 
The  sole  succeeder  to  their  wealth,  their  lands, 
The  last  remaining  pillar  of  their  house, 
The  one  transmitter  of  their  ancient  name, 
Theirchild."  "Ourchild!"   "  Our  heiress  I"  "Ours!" 

for  still, 

Like  echoes  from  beyond  a  hollow,  came 
Her  sicklier  iteration.    Last  he  said 
"Boy,  mark  me !  for  your  fortunes  are  to  make. 
I  swear  yon  shall  not  make  them  out  of  mine. 
Now  inasmuch  as  you  have  practised  on  her, 
Perplext  her,  made  her  half  forget  herself, 
Swerve  from  her  duty  to  herself  and  na — 
Things  in  an  Aylmer  deem'd  impossible, 
Far  as  we  track  ourselves — I  say  that  this, — 
Else  I  withdraw  favor  and  countenance 
From  you  and  yours  forever — shall  you  do. 
Sir,  when  you  see  her — but  you  shall  not  see  her  — 
No,  you  shall  write,  and  not  to  her,  but  me  : 
And  you  shall  say  that  having  spoken  with  me, 
And  after  look'd  into  yourself,  you  find 
That  you  meant  nothing— as  indeed  yon  know 
That  you  meant  nothing.    Such  a  match  as  this ! 
Impossible,  prodigious  !"    These  were  words, 
As  meted  by  his  measure  of  himself, 
Arguing  boundless  forbearance :  after  which, 
And  Leolin's  horror-stricken  answer,  "I 
So  foul  a  traitor  to  myself  and  her, 
Never,  O  never,"  for  about  as  long 
As  the  wind-hover  hangs  in  balance,  paused 
Sir  Aylmer  reddening  from  the  storm  within, 
Then  broke  all  bonds  of  courtesy,  and  crying 
"Boy,  should  I  find  you  by  my  doors  again 
My  men  shall  lash  you  from  them  like  a  dog: 
Hence !"  with  a  sudden  execration  drove 
The  footstool  from  before  him,  and  arose ; 
So,  stammering  "  scoundrel "  out  of  teeth  that  ground 
As  in  a  dreadful  dream,  while  Leolin  still 
Retreated  half-aghast,  the  fierce  old  man 
Follow'd,  and  under  his  own  lintel  stood 
Storming  with  lifted  hands,  a  hoary  face 
Meet  for  the  reverence  of  the  hearth,  but  now, 
Beneath  a  pale  and  unimpassion'd  moon, 
Text  with  unworthy  madness,  and  defonn'd. 

Slowly  and  conscious  of  the  rageful  eye 
That  watch'd  him,  till  he  heard  the  ponderous  door 
Clone,  crashing  with  long  echoes  thro'  the  land, 
Went  Leolin;  then,  his  passions  all  in  flood 
And  masters  ot  his  motion,  furiously 
Down  thro'  the  bright  lawns  to  his  brother's  ran, 
And  foam'd  away'  his  heart  at  Averill's  ear : 
Whom  Averill  solaced  as  he  might,  amazed : 
The  man  was  his,  had  been  his  father's  friend- 
14 


He  must  have  seen,  himself  had  seen  it  long ; 

He  must  have  known,  himself  had  known :  besides, 

He  never  yet  had  set  his  daughter  forth 

Here  in  the  woman-markets  of  the  west, 

Where  our  Caucasians  let  themselves  be  sold. 

Some  one,  he  thought,  had  slander'd  Leolin  to  him. 

"  Brother,  for  I  have  loved  you  more  as  eon 

Than  brother,  let  me  tell  you :  I  myself— 

What  is  their  pretty  saying  ?  jilted,  is  it  ? 

Jilted  I  was :  I  say  it  for  your  peace. 

Pain'd,  and,  as  bearing  in  myself  the  shame 

The  woman  should  have  borne,  humiliated, 

I  lived  for  years  a  stunted  sunless  life; 

Till  after  our  good  parents  past  away 

Watching  your  growth,  I  seem'd  again  to  grow. 

Leolin,  I  almost  sin  in  envying  you : 

The  very  whitest  lamb  in  «11  my  fold 

Loves  you :  I  know  her :  the  worst  thought  she  has 

Is  whiter  even  than  her  pretty  hand: 

She  must  prove  true :  for,  brother,  where  two  fight 

The  strongest  wins,  and  truth  and  love  are  strength, 

And  you  are  happy:  let  her  parents  be." 

But  Leolin  cried  out  the  more  npon  them — 
Insolent,  brainless,  heartless '.  heiress,  wealth, 
Their  wealth,  their  heiress  !  wealth  enough  was  theirs 
For  twenty  matches.    Were  he  lord  of  this, 
Why  twenty  boys  and  girls  should  marry  on  it, 
And  forty  blest  ones  bless  him,  and  himself 
Be  wealthy  still,  ay  wealthier.    He  believed 
This  filthy  marriage-hindering  Mammon  made 
The  harlot  of  the  cities ;  nature  crost 
Was  mother  of  the  foul  adulteries 
That  saturate  soul  with  body.    Name,  too !  name, 
Their  ancient  name  !  they  might  be  proud  ;  its  worth 
Was  being  Edith's.    Ah  how  pale  she  had  look'd 
Darling,  to-night !  they  must  have  rated  her 
Beyond  all  tolerance.    These  old  pheasant-lords, 
These  partridge-breeders  of  a  thousand  years, 
Who  had  mildew'd  in  their  thousands,  doing  nothing 
Since  Egbert — why,  the  greater  their  disgrace ! 
Fall  back  upon  a  name !  rest,  rot  in  that ! 
Not  keep  it  noble,  make  it  nobler?  fools, 
With  such  a  vantage-ground  for  nobleness . 
He  had  known  a  man,  a  quintessence  of  man. 
The  life  of  all— who  madly  loved — and  he, 
Thwarted  by  one  of  those  old  father-fools, 
Had  rioted  his  life  out,  and  made  an  end. 
He  would  not  do  it !  her  sweet  race  and  faith 
Held  him  from  that :  but  he  had  powers,  he  knew  it: 
Back  would  he  to  his  studies,  make  a  name, 
Name,  fortune  too :  the  world  should  ring  of  him 
To  shame  these  mouldy  Aylmers  in  their  graves : 
Chancellor,  or  what  is  greatest  would  he  be — 
"  O  brother,  I  am  grieved  to  learn  your  grief^- 
Give  me  my  fling,  and  let  me  say  my  say." 

At  which,  like  one  that  sees  his  own  excess, 
And  easily  forgives  it  as  his  own, 
He  laugh'd ;  and  then  was  mute ;  but  presently 
Wept  like  a  storm:  and  honest  Averill  seeing 
How  low  his  brother's  mood  had  fallen,  fetch'd 
His  richest  beeswing  from  a  binn  reserved 
For  banquets,  praised  the  waning  red,  and  told 
The  vintage— when  this  Aylmer  came  of  age — 
Then  drank  and  past  it:  till  at  length  the  two, 
Tho'  Leolin  flamed  and  fell  again,  agreed 
That  much  allowance  must  be  made  for  men. 
After  an  angry  dream  this  kindlier  glow 
Faded  with  morning,  but  his  purpose  held. 

Yet  once  by  night  again  the  lovers  met, 
A  perilous  meeting  under  the  tall  pines 
That  darken'd  all  the  northward  of  her  HalL 
Him,  to  her  meek  and  modest  bosom  prest 
In  agony,  she  promised  that  no  force, 
Persuasion,  no,  nor  death  could  alter  her: 
He,  passionately  hopefuller,  would  go. 


210 


AYLMEB'S  FIELD. 


Labor  for  his  own  Edith,  and  return 

In  such  a  sunlight  of  prosperity 

He  should  not  be  rejected.    "  Write  to  me  ! 

They  loved  me,  and  because  I  love  their  child 

They  hate  me :  there  is  war  between  us,  dear, 

Which  breaks  all  bonds  but  ours ;  we  must  remain 

Sacred  to  one  another."    So  they  talk'd, 

Poor  children,  for  their  comfort:  the  wind  blew; 

The  rain  of  heaven,  and  their  own  bitter  tears, 

Tears,  and  the  careless  rain  of  heaven,  mixt 

Upon  their  faces,  as  they  kiss'd  each  other 

In  darkness,  and  above  them  roar'd  the  pine. 

So  Leolin  went ;  and  as  we  task  ourselves 
To  learn  a  language  known  but  smatteringly 
In  phrases  here  and  there  at  random,  toil'd 
Mastering  the  lawless  science  of  onr  law, 
That  codeless  myriad  of  precedent, 
That  wilderness  of  single  instances, 
Thro'  which  a  few,  by  wit  or  fortune  led, 
May  beat  a  pathway  out  to  wealth  and  fame. 
The  jests,  that  flash'd  about  the  pleader's  room, 
Lightning  of  the  hour,  the  pun,  the  scurrilous  tale,— 
Old  scandals  buried  now  seven  decades  deep 
In  other  scandals  that  have  lived  and  died, 
And  left  the  living  scandal  that  shall  die- 
Were  dead  to  him  already;  bent  as  he  was 
To  make  disproof  of  scorn,  and  strong  in  hopes, 
And  prodigal  of  all  brain-labor  he, 
Charier  of  sleep,  and  wine  and  exercisG, 
Except  when  for  a  breathing-while  at  eve 
Some  niggard  fraction  of  an  hour  he  ran 
Beside  the  river-bank:  and  then  indeed 
Harder  the  times  were,  and  the  hands  of  power 
Were  bloodier,  and  the  according  hearts  ot  men 
Seem'd  harder  too ;  but  the  soft  river-breeze, 
Which  fann'd  the  gardens  of  that  rival  rose 
Yet  fragrant  in  a  heart  remembering 
His  former  talks  with  Edith,  on  him  breathed 
Far  purelier  in  his  rushings  to  and  fro, 
After  his  books,  to  flush  his  blood  with  air, 
Then  to  his  books  again.    My  lady's  cousin, 
Half-sickening  of  his  pensioned  afternoon, 
Drove  in  upon  the  the  student  once  or  twice, 
Ran  a  Malayan  muck  against  the  times, 
Had  golden  hopes  for  France  and  all  mankind, 
Answer'd  all  queries  touching  those  at  home 
With  a  heaved  shoulder  and  a  saucy  smile, 
And  fain  had  haled  him  out  into  the  world, 
And  air'd  him  there:  his  nearer  friend  would  say, 
"  Screw  not  the  cord  too  sharply  lest  it  snap." 
Then  left  alone  he  plnck'd  her  dagger  forth 
From  where  his  worldless  heart  had  kept  it  warm, 
Kissing  his  vows  npon  it  like  a  knight. 
And  wrinkled  benchers  often  talk'd  of  him 
Approvingly,  and  prophesied  his  rise: 
For  heart,  I  think,  help'd  head :  her  letters  too, 
Tho'  far  between,  and  coming  fitfully 
Like  broken  music,  written  as  she  found 
Or  made  occasion,  being  strictly  watch'd, 
Charm'd  him  thro'  every  labyrinth  till  he  saw 
Aa  end,  a  hope,  a  light  breaking  npon  him. 

But  they  that  cast  her  spirit  into  flesh, 
Her  worldly-wise  begetters,  plagued  themselves 
To  sell  her,  those  good  parents,  for  her  good. 
Whatever  eldest-born  of  rank  or  wealth 
Might  lie  within  their  compass,  him  they  lured 
Into  their  net  made  pleasant  by  the  baits 
Of  gold  and  beauty,  wooing  him  to  woo. 
So  month  by  month  the  noise  about  their  doors, 
And  distant  blaze  of  those  dull  banquets,  made 
The  nightly  wirer  of  their  innocent  hare 
Falter  before  he  took  it.    All  in  vain. 
Sullen,  defiant,  pitying,  wroth,  return'd 
Leolin's  rejected  rivals  from  their  suit 
So  often,  that  the  folly  taking  wings 
Slipt  o'er  those  lazy  limits  down  the  wind 


With  rumor,  and  became  in  other  fields 
A  mockery  to  the  yeomen  over  ale, 
And  laughter  to  their  lords:  but  those  at  home, 
As  hunters  round  a  hunted  creature  draw 
The  cordon  close  and  closer  toward  the  death, 
Narrow' d  her  goings  out  and  comings  in; 
Forbade  her  first  the  house  of  Averill, 
Then  closed  her  access  to  the  wealthier  farms, 
Last  from  her  own  home-circle  of  the  poor 
They  barr'd  her:  yet  she  bore  it:  yet  her  cheek 
Kept  color :  wondrous  !  but,  O  mystery ! 
What  amulet  drew  her  down  to  that  old  oak, 
So  old,  that  twenty  years  before,  a  part 
Falling  had  let  appear  the  brand  of  John— 
Once  grovelike,  each  huge  arm  a  tree,  but  now 
The  broken  base  of  a  black  tower,  a  cave 
Of  touchwood,  with  a  single  flourishing  spray. 
There  the  manorial  lord  too  curiously 
Raking  in  that  millennial  touchwood-dust 
Found  for  himself  a  bitter  treasure-trove ; 
Burst  his  own  wyvern  on  the  seal,  and  read 
Writhing  a  letter  from  his  child,  for  which 
Came  at  the  moment  Leolin's  emissary, 
A  crippled  lad,  and  coming  turn'd  to  fly, 
But  scared  with  threats  of  jail  and  halter  gave 
To  him  that  flnster'd  his  poor  parish  wits 
The  letter  which  he  brought,  and  swore  besides 
To  play  their  go-between  as  heretofore 
Nor  let  them  know  themselves  betray'd,  and 
Soul-stricken  at  their  kindness  to  him,  went 
Hating  his  own  lean  heart  and  miserable. 

Thenceforward  oft  from  out  a  despot  dream 
Panting  he  woke,  and  oft  as  early  as  dawn 
Aroused  the  black  republic  on  his  elms, 
Sweeping  the  frothfly  from  the  fescue,  brush'd 
Thro'  the  dim  meadow  toward  his  treasure-trove, 
Seized  it,  took  home,  and  to  my  lady,  who  made 
A  downward  crescent  of  her  minion  mouth, 
Listless  in  all  despondence,  read ;  and  tore, 
As  if  the  living  passion  symbol'd  there 
Were  living  nerves  to  feel  the  rent;  and  burnt, 
Now  chafing  at  his  own  great  self  defied, 
Now  striking  on  huge  stumbling-blocks  of  scorn 
In  babyisms,  and  dear  diminutives 
Scatter'd  all  over  the  vocabulary 
Of  such  a  love  as  like  a  chidden  babe, 
After  much  wailing,  hush'd  itself  at  last 
Hopeless  of  answer :  then  tho'  Averill  wrote 
And  bade  him  with  good  heart  sustain  himself— 
All  would  be  well — the  lover  heeded  not, 
But  passionately  restless  came  and  went, 
And  rustling  once  at  night  about  the  place, 
There  by  a  keeper  shot  at,  slightly  hurt, 
Raging  retnrn'd :  nor  was  it  well  for  her 
Kept  to  the  garden  now,  and  grove  of  pines, 
Watch'd  even  there:  and  one  was  set  to  watch 
The  watcher,  and  Sir  Aylmer  watch'd  them  all, 
Yet  bitterer  from  his  readings :  once  indeed, 
Warm'd  with  his  wines,  or  taking  pride  in  her, 
She  look'd  so  sweet,  he  kiss'd  her  tenderly, 
Not  knowing  what  possess'd  him:  that  one  kiss 
Was  Leolin's  one  strong  rival  upon  earth ; 
Seconded,  for  my  lady  follow'd  suit, 
Seem'd  hope's  returning  rose:  and  then  ensued 
A  Martin's  summer  of  his  faded  love, 
Or  ordeal  by  kindness;  after  this 
He  seldom  crost  his  child  without  a  sneer ; 
The  mother  flow'd  in  shallower  acrimonies : 
Never  one  kindly  smile,  one  kindly  word : 
So  that  the  gentle  creature  shut  from  all 
Her  charitable  use,  and  face  to  face 
With  twenty  mouths  of  silence,  slowly  lost 
Nor  greatly  cared  to  lose,  her  hold  on  life. 
Last,  some  low  fever  ranging  round  to  spy 
The  weakness  of  a  people  or  a  house, 
Like  flies  that  haunt  a  wound,  or  deer,  or  mec, 
Or  almost  all  that  is,  hurting  the  hurt— 


AYLMER'S  FIELD. 


211 


Save  Christ  as  we  believe  him— found  the  girl 
And  flung  her  down  upon  a  couch  of  fire, 
Where  careless  of  the  household  faces  near, 
And  crying  upon  the  name  of  Leolin, 
She,  and  with  her  the  race  of  Ayltner,  past. 

Star  to  star  vibrates  light :  may  soul  to  sou! 
Strike  thro'  a  finer  element  of  her  own  ? 
So, — from  afar, — touch  as  at  once  ?  or  why 
That  night,  that  moment,  when  she  named  his  name 
Did  the  keen  shriek,  "Yes  love,  yes  Edith,  yes," 
Shrill,  till  the  comrade  of  his  chambers  woke, 
And  came  upon  him  half-arisen  from  sleep, 
With  a  weird  bright  eye,  sweating  and  trembling, 
His  hair  as  it  were  crackling  into  flames, 
His  body  half  flung  forward  in  pursuit, 
And  his  long  arms  stretch'd  as  to  grasp  a  fiver: 
Nor  knew  he  wherefore  he  had  made  the  cry: 
And  being  much  befool'd  and  idioted 
By  the  rough  amity  of  the  other,  sank 
As  into  sleep  again.    The  second  day, 
My  lady's  Indian  kinsman  rushing  in, 
A  breaker  of  the  bifter  news  from  home, 
Found  a  dead  man,  a  letter  edged  with  death 
Beside  him,  and  the  dagger  which  himself 
Gave  Edith,  redden'd  with  no  bandit's  blood 
"From  Edith"  was  engraven  on  the  blade. 

Then  Averill  went  and  gazed  upon  his  death. 
And  when  he  came  again,  his  flock  believed— 
Beholding  how  the  years  which  are  not  Time's 
Had  blasted  him— that  many  thousand  days 
Were  dipt  by  horror  from  his  term  of  life. 
Yet  the  sad  mother,  for  the  second  death 
Scarce  touch'd  her  thro'  that  nearness  of  the  first, 
And  being  used  to  find  her  pastor  texts, 
Sent  to  the  harrow'd  brother,  praying  him 
To  speak  before  the  people  of  her  child, 
And  fixt  the  Sabbath.    Darkly  that  day  rose: 
Autumn's  mock  sunshine  of  the  faded  woods 
Was  all  the  life  of  it ;  for  hard  on  these, 
A  breathless  burthen  of  low-folded  heavens 
Stifled  and  chill'd  at  once :  but  every  roof 
Sent  out  a  listener:  many  too  had  known 
Edith  among  the  hamlets  round,  and  since 
The  parents'  harshness  and  the  hapless  loves 
And  double  death  were  widely  murmur'd,  left 
Their  own  gray  tower,  or  plain-faced  tabernacle, 
To  hear  him ;  all  in  mourning  these,  and  those 
With  blots  of  it  about  them,  ribbon,  glove 
Or  kerchief;  while  the  church, — one  night,  except 
For  greenish  glimmerings  thro'  the  lancets, — made 
Still  paler  the  pale  head  of  him,  who  tower'd 
Above  them,  with  his  hopes  in  either  grave. 

Long  o'er  his  bent  brows  linger'd  Averill, 
His  face  magnetic  to  the  hand  from  which 
Livid  he  pluck'd  it  forth,  and  labor'd  thro' 
His  brief  prayer-prelude,  gave  the  verse  "  Behold, 
Your  house  is  left  unto  you  desolate !" 
But  lapsed  into  so  long  a  pause  again 
As  half  amazed,  half  frighted  all  his  flock : 
Then  from  his  height  and  loneliness  of  grief 
Bore  down  in  flood,  and  dash'd  his  angry  heart 
Against  the  desolations  of  the  world. 

Never  since  our  bad  earth  became  one  sea, 
Which  rolling  o'er  the  palaces  of  the  proud, 
And  all  but  those  who  knew  the  living  God — 
Eight  that  were  left  to  make  a  purer  world — 
When    since    had   flood,  fire,  earthquake,  thunder, 

wrought 

Such  waste  and  havoc  as  the  idolatries, 
Which  from  the  low  light  of  mortality 
Shot  up  their  shadows  to  the  Heaven  of  Heavens, 
And  worshipt  their  own  darkness  as  the  Highest? 
"Gash  thyself,  priest,  and  honor  thy  brute  Baiil, 


And  to  thy  worst  self  sacrifice  thyself, 
For  with  thy  worst  self  hast  thou  clothed  thy  God." 
Then  came  a  Lord  in  no  wise  like  to  Baiil. 
The  babe  shall  lead  the  lion.    Surely  now 
The  wilderness  shall  blossom  as  the  rose. 
Crown  thyself,  worm,  and  worship  thine  own  lusts  !— 
No  coarse  and  blockish  God  of  acreage 
Stands  at  thy  gate  for  thee  to  grovel  to — 
Thy  God  is  far  diffused  in  noble  groves 
And  princely  halls,  and  farms,  and  flowing  lawns, 
And  heaps  of  living  gold  that  daily  grow, 
And  title-scrolls  and  gorgeous  heraldries. 
In  such  a  shape  dost  thou  behold  thy  God. 
Thou  wilt  not  gash  thy  flesh  for  him;  for  thins 
Fares  richly,  in  fine  linen,  not  a  hair 
Ruflled  upon  the  scarfskin,  even  while 
The  deathless  ruler  of  thy  dying  house 
Is  wounded  to  the  death  that  cannot  die ; 
And  tho'  thou  numberest  with  the  followers 
Of  One  who  cried  "  Leave  all  and  follow  me." 
Thee  therefore  with  His  light  about  thy  feet, 
Thee  with  His  message  ringing  in  thine  ears, 
Thee  shall  thy  brother  man,  the  Lord  from  Heaven, 
Born  of  a  village  girl,  carpenter's  son, 
Wonderful,  Prince  of  peace,  the  Mighty  God, 
Count  the  more  base  idolater  of  the  two ; 
Crueller:  as  not  passing  thro'  the  fire 
Bodies,  but  souls — thy  children's — thro'  the  smoke, 
The  blight  of  low  desires — darkening  thine  own 
To  thiae  own  likeness ;  or  if  one  of  these, 
Thy  better  born  unhappily  from  thee, 
Should,  as  by  miracle,  grow  straight  and  fair- 
Friends,  I  was  bid  to  speak  of  such  a  one 
By  those  who  most  have  cause  to  sorrow  for  her — 
Fairer  than  Rachel  by  the  palmy  well, 
Fairer  than  Ruth  among  the  fields  of  corn, 
Fair  as  the  Angel  that  said  "  hail "  she  eeem'd, 
Who  entering  fill'd  the  house  with  sudden  light. 
For  so  mine  own  was  brighten'd :  where  indeed 
The  roof  so  lowly  but  that  beam  of  Heaven 
Dawn'd  sometimes  thro'  the   doorway?  whose  the 

babe 

Too  ragged  to  be  fondled  on  her  lap, 
Warm'd  at  her  bosom  ?    The  poor  child  of  shame, 
The  common  care  whom  no  one  cared  for,  leapt 
To  greet  her,  wasting  his  forgotten  heart, 
As  with  the  mother  he  had  never  known, 
In  gambols;  for  her  fresh  and  innocent  eyes 
Had  such  a  star  of  morning  in  their  blue, 
That  all  neglected  places  of  the  field 
Broke  into  nature's  music  when  they  saw  her. 
Low  was  her  voice,  but  won  mysterious  wav 
Thro'  the  seal'd  ear,  to  which  a  louder  one* 
Was  all  but  silence — free  of  alms  her  hand — 
The  hand  that  robed  your  cottage-walls  with  flowers 
Has  often  toil'd  to  clothe  your  little  ones ; 
How  often  placed  upon  the  sick  man's  brow 
Cool'd  it,  or  laid  his  feverous  pillow  smooth ! 
Had  you  one  sorrow  and  she  shared  it  not? 
One  burthen  and  she  would  not  lighten  it? 
One  spiritual  doubt  she  did  not  soothe? 
Or  when  some  heat  of  difference  sparkled  out, 
How  sweetly  would  she  glide  between  your  wraths, 
And  steal  you  from  each  other !  for  she  walk'd 
Wearing  the  light  yoke  of  that  Lord  of  love, 
Who  still'd  the  rolling  wave  of  Galilee ! 
And  one— of  him  I  was  not  bid  to  speak — 
Was  always  with  her,  whom  you  also  knew. 
Elim  too  you  loved,  for  he  was  worthy  love. 
And  these  had  been  together  from  the  first ; 
They  might  have  been  together  till  the  last. 
Friends,  this  frail  bark  of  ours,  when  sorely  tried, 
Vlay  wreck  itself  without  the  pilot's  guilt, 
Without  the  captain's  knowledge  :  hope  with  me. 
Whose  shame  is  that,  if  he  went  hence  with  shame  ? 
STor  mine  the  fault,  if  losing  both  of  these 
'.  cry  to  vacant  chairs  and  widow'd  walls, 
'My  housa  is  left  unto  me  desolate." 


212 


SEA  DREAMS. 


While  thus  he  spoke,  his  hearers  wept ;  but  some, 
Sons  of  the  glebe,  with  other  frowns  than  those 
That  knit  themselves  for  summer  shadow,  scowl'd 
At  their  great  lord.    He,  wheu  it  seem'd  he  saw 
No  pale  sheet-lightnings  from  afar,  but  fork'd 
Of  the  near  storm,  and  aiming  at  his  head, 
Sat  anger-charm'd  from  sorrow,  soldier-like, 
Erect:  but  when  the  preacher's  cadence  flow'd 
Softening  thro'  all  the  gentle  attributes 
Of  his  lost  child,  the  wife,  who  watch'd  his  face, 
Paled  at  a  sudden  twitch  of  his  iron  mouth ; 
And,  "O  pray  God  that  he  hold  up,"  she  thought, 
"Or  surely  I  shall  shame  myself  and  him." 

"Nor  yours  the  blame — for  who  beside  your  hearths 
Can  take  her  place— if  echoing  me  you  cry 
'  Our  house  is  left  unto  us  desolate  ?' 
But  thou,  O  thou  that  killest,  hadst  thou  known, 
O  thou  that  stonest,  hadst  thou  understood 
The  things  belonging  to  thy  peace  and  ours ! 
Is  there  no  prophet  but  the  voice  that  calls 
Doom  upon  kings,  or  in  the  waste  '  Repent  ?' 
Is  not  our  own  child  on  the  narrow  way, 
Who  down  to  those  that  saunter  in  the  broad 
Cries  '  Come  up  hither,'  as  a  prophet  to  us  ? 
Is  there  no  stoning  save  with  flint  and  rock? 
Yes,  as  the  dead  we  weep  for  testify — 
No  desolation  but  by  sword  and  fire  ? 
Yes,  as  your  meanings  witness,  and  myself 
Am  lonelier,  darker,  earthlier  for  my  loss. 
Give  me  your  prayers,  for  he  is  past  your  prayers, 
Not  past  the  living  fount  of  pity  in  Heaven. 
But  I  that  thought  myself  long-suffering,  meek, 
Exceeding  'poor  in  spirit' — how  the  words 
Have  twisted  back  upon  themselves  and  mean 
Vileness,  we  are  grown  so  proud — I  wish'd  my  voice 
A  rushing  tempest  of  the  wrath  of  God 
To  blow  these  sacrifices  thro'  the  world — 
Sent  like  the  twelve-divided  concubine 
To  inflame  the  tribes ;  but  there — out  yonder — earth 
Lightens  from  her  own  central  Hell— O  there 
The  red  fruit  of  an  old  idolatry — 
The  heads  of  chiefs  and  princes  fall  so  fast, 
They  cling  together  in  the  ghastly  sack — 
The  land  all  shambles— naked  marriages 
Flash  from  the  bridge,  and  ever-murder'd  France, 
By  shores  that  darken  with  the  gathering  wolf, 
Runs  in  a  river  of  blood  to  the  sick  sea. 
Is  this  a  time  to  madden  madness  then? 
Was  this  a  time  for  these  to  flaunt  their  pride  ? 
May  Pharaoh's  darkness,  folds  as  dense  as  those 
Which  hid  the  Holiest  from  the  people's  eyes 
Ere  the  great  death,  shroud  this  great  sin  from  all: 
Doubtless  our  narrow  world  must  canvass  it; 

0  rather  pray  for  those  and  pity  them 

Who  thro'  their  own  desire  accomplish'd  bring 
Their  own  gray  hairs  with  sorrow  to  the  grave — 
Who  broke  the  bond  which  they  desired  to  break — 
Which   else   had  link'd   their   race   with   times  to 

come — 

Who  wove  coarse  webs  to  snare  her  purity, 
Grossly  contriving  their  dear  daughter's  good- 
Poor  souls,  and  knew  not  what  they  did,  but  sat 
Ignorant,  devising  their  own  daughter's  death 
May  not  that  earthly  chastisement  suffice? 
Have  not  our  love  and  reverence  left  them  bare  ? 
Will  not  another  take  their  heritage  ? 
Will  there  be  children's  laughter  in  their  hall 
Forever  and  forever,  or  one  stone 
Left  on  another,  or  is  it  a  light  thing 
That  I  their  guest,  their  host,  their  ancient  friend, 

1  made  by  these  the  last  of  all  my  race 
Must  cry  to  these  the  last  of  theirs,  as  cried 
Christ  ere  His  agony  to  those  that  swore 
Not  by  the  temple  but  the  gold,  and  made 
Their  own  traditions  God,  and  slew  the  Lord, 
Aiid  left  their  memories  a  world's  curse— '  Behold, 
Your  house  is  left  unto  yon  desolate  ?' " 


Ended  he  had  not,  but  she  brook'd  no  more : 
Long  since  her  heart  had  beat  remorselessly, 
Her  crampt-up  sorrow  paiu'd  her,  and  a  Bense 
Of  meanness  in  her  unresisting  life. 
Then  their  eyes  vext  her;  for  on  entering 
He  had  cast  the  curtains  of  their  seat  aside- 
Black  velvet  of  the  costliest— she  herself 
Had  seen  to  that:  fain  had  she  closed  them  now, 
Yet  dared  not  stir  to  do  it,  only  near'd 
Her  husband  inch  by  inch,  but  when  she  laid, 
Wifelike,  her  hand  in  one  of  his,  he  veil'd 
His  face  with  the  other,  and  at  once,  as  falls 
A  creeper  when  the  prop  is  broken,  fell 
The  woman  shrieking  at  his  feet,  and  swoon'd. 
Then  her  own  people  bore  along  the  nave 
Her  pendent  hands,  and  narrow  meagre  face 
Searn'd  with  the  shallow  cares  of  fifty  years : 
And  her  the  Lord  of  all  the  landscape  round 
Ev'n  to  its  last  horizon,  and  of  all 
Who  peer'd  at  him  so  keenly,  follow'd  out 
Tall  and  erect,  but  in  the  middle  aisle 
Reel'd,  as  a  footsore  ox  in  crowded  ways 
Stumbling  across  the  market  to  his  death, 
Uupitied ;  for  he  groped  as  blind,  and  seern'd 
Always  about  to  fall,  grasping  the  pews 
And  oaken  finials  till  he  touch'd  the  door; 
Yet  to  the  lychgate,  where  his  chariot  stood, 
Strode  from  the  porch,  tall  and  erect  again. 

But  nevermore  did  either  pass  the  gate 
Save  under  pall  with  bearers.    In  one  month, 
Thro'  weary  and  yet  ever  wearier  hours, 
The  childless  mother  went  to  seek  her  child; 
And  when  he  felt  the  silence  of  his  house 
About  him,  and  the  change  and  not  the  change, 
And  those  fixt  eyes  of  painted  ancestors 
Staring  forever  from  their  gilded  walls 
On  him  their  last  descendant,  his  own  head 
Began  to  droop,  to  fall ;  the  man  became 
Imbecile  ;  his  one  word  was  "  desolate  ;" 
Dead  for  two  years  before  his  death  was  he : 
But  when  the  second  Christmas  came,  escaped 
His  keepers,  and  the  silence  which  he  felt, 
To  find  a  deeper  in  the  narrow  gloom 
By  wife  and  child ;  nor  wanted  at  his  end 
The  dark  retinue  reverencing  death 
At  golden  thresholds ;  nor  from  tender  hearts, 
And  those  who  sorrow' d  o'er  a  vanish'd  race, 
Pity,  the  violet  on  the  tyrant's  grave. 
Then  the  great  Hall  was  wholly  broken  down, 
And  the  broad  woodland  parcell'd  into  farms ; 
And  where  the  two  contrived  their  daughter's  good, 
Lies  the  hawk's  cast,  the  mole  has  made  his  run, 
The  hedgehog  underneath  the  plantain  bores, 
The  rabbit  fondles  his  own  harmless  face, 
The  slow-worm  creeps,  and  the  thin  weasel  thera 
Follows  the  mouse,  and  all  is  open  field. 


SEA  DREAMS. 

A  CITY  clerk,  but  gently  born  and  bred; 
His  wife,  an  unknown  artist's  orphan  child — 
One  babe  was  theirs,  a  Margaret,  three  years  old: 
They,  thinking  that  her  clear  germander  eye 
Droopt  in  the  giant-factoried  city-gloom, 
Came,  with  a  month's  leave  given  them,  to  the  sea ; 
For  which  his  gains  were  dock'd,  however  small : 
Small  were  his  gains,  and  hard  his  work ;  besides, 
Their  slender  household  fortunes  (for  the  man 
Had  risk'd  his  little)  like  the  little  thrift, 
Trembled  in  perilous  places  o'er  a  deep; 
And  oft,  when  sitting  all  alone,  his  face 
Would  darken,  as  he  cursed  his  credulousness, 
And  that  one  unctuous  mouth  which  lured  him,  rogue, 
To  buy  strange  shares  in  some  Peruvian  mine. 
Now  seaward-bound  for  health  they  gaiu'd  a  coast, 


SEA  DREAMS. 


213 


All  sand  and  cliff  and  deep-inrnnning  cave, 

At  close  of  day ;  slept,  woke,  aud  went  the  next, 

The  Sabbath,  pious  variers  from  the  church, 

To  chapel ;  where  a  heated  pulpiteer, 

Not  preaching  simple  Christ  to  simple  men, 

Announced  the  coming  doom,  and  fulminated 

Against  the  scarlet  woman  and  her  creed: 

For  sideways  up  he  swung  his  arms,  and  shriek'd, 

"  Thus,  thus  with  violence,"  ev'n  as  if  he  held 

The  Apocalyptic  millstone,  and  himself 

Were  that  great  Angel;  "thus  with  violence 

Shall  Babylon  be  cast  into  the  sea; 

Then  comes  the  close."    The  gentle-hearted  wife 

Sat  shuddering  at  the  rain  of  a  world ; 

He  at  his  own :  but  when  the  wordy  storm 

Had  ended,  forth  they  came  and  paced  the  shore, 

Ran  in  and  out  the  long  sea-framing  caves, 

Drank  the  large  air,  and  saw,  but  scarce  believed 

(The  sootflake  of  so  many  a  summer  still 

Clung  to  their  fancies)  that  they  saw,  the  sea. 

So  now  on  sand  they  walk'd,  and  now  on  cliff, 

Lingering  about  the  thymy  promontories, 

Till  all  the  sails  were  darkened  in  the  west, 

And  rosed  in  the  east :  then  homeward  and  to  bed : 

Where  she,  who  kept  a  tender  Christian  hope 

Haunting  a  holy  text,  and  still  to  that 

Returning,  as  the  bird  returns,  at  night, 

"  Let  not  the  sun  go  down  upon  your  wrath," 

Said,  "Love,  forgive  him:"  but  he  did  not  speak; 

And  silenced  by  that  silence  lay  the  wife, 

Remembering  her  dear  Lord  who  died  for  all, 

And  musing  on  the  little  lives  of  men, 

Aud  how  they  mar  this  little  by  their  feuds. 

But  while  the  two  were  sleeping,  a  full  tide 
Rose  with  ground-swell,  which,  on  the  foremost  rocks 
Touching,  upjetted  in  spirts  of  wild  sea-smoke, 
And  scaled  in  sheets  of  wasteful  foam,  and  fell 
In  vast  sea-cataracts — ever  and  anon 
Dead  claps  of  thunder  from  within  the  cliffs 
Heard  thro'  the  living  roar.    At  this  the  babe, 
Their  Margaret  cradled  near  them,  wail'd  and  woke 
The  mother,  and  the  father  suddenly  cried, 
"A  wreck,  a  wreck !"  then  turn'd,  and  groaning  said 

"Forgive  !    How  many  will  say  'forgive,'  and  find 
A  sort  of  absolution  in  the  sound 
To  hate  a  little  longer!    No;  the  sin 
That  neither  God  nor  man  can  well  forgive, 
Hypocrisy,  I  saw  it  in  him  at  once. 
Is  it  so  true  that  second  thoughts  are  best  ? 
Not  first,  and  third,  which  are  a  riper  first? 
Too  ripe,  too  late !  they  come  too  late  for  use. 
Ah  love,  there  surely  lives  in  man  and  beast 
Something  divine  to  warn  them  of  their  foes ; 
And  such  a  sense,  when  first  I  fronted  him, 
Said,  '  Trust  him  not ;'  but  after,  when  I  came 
To  know  him  more,  I  lost  it,  knew  him  less ; 
Fought  with  what  seem'd  my  own  uncharity ; 
Sat  at  his  table ;  drank  his  costly  wines ; 
Made  more  and  more  allowance  for  his  talk; 
Went  further,  fool !  and  trusted  him  with  all, 
All  my  poor  scrapings  from  a  dozen  years 
Of  dust  and  deskwork ;  there  is  no  such  mine, 
None;  but  a  gulf  of  ruin,  swallowing  gold, 
Not  making.    Ruin'd !  ruin'd !  the  sea  roars 
Ruin:  a  fearful  night!" 

"  Not  fearful ;  fair," 

Said  the  good  wife,  "  if  every  star  in  heaven 
Can  make  it  fair:  you  do  but  hear  the  tide. 
Had  you  ill  dreams?" 

"O  yes,"  he  said,  "  I  dream'd 
Of  such  a  tide  swelling  toward  the  land, 
And  I  from  out  the  boundless  outer  deep 
Swept  with  it  to  the  shore,  and  enter'd  one 
Of  those  dark  caves  that  run  beneath  the  cliffs. 


I  thought  the  motion  of  the  boundless  deep 

Bore  through  the  cave,  and  I  was  heaved  upon  it 

In  darkness:  then  I  saw  one  lovely  star 

Larger  and  larger.    'What  a  world,'  I  thought, 

1  To  live  in  !'  but  in  moving  on  I  found 

Only  the  landward  exit  of  the  cave. 

Bright  with  the  sun  upon  the  stream  beyond: 

And  near  the  light  a  giant  woman  sat. 

All  over  earthy,  like  a  piece  of  earth, 

A  pickaxe  in  her  hand:  then  out  I  slipt 

Into  a  land  all  sun  and  blossom,  trees 

As  high  as  heaven,  and  every  bird  that  sings : 

And  here  the  night-light  flickering  in  my  eyes 

Awoke  me." 

"That  was  then  your  dream,"  she  said, 
"Not  sad,  but  sweet." 

"  So  sweet,  I  lay,"  said  he, 
"And  mused  upon  it,  drifting  up  the  stream 
In  fancy,  till  I  slept  again,  and  pieced 
The  broken  vision;  for  I  dream'd  that  still 
The  motion  of  the  great  deep  bore  me  on, 
And  that  the  woman  walk'd  upon  the  brink: 
I  wonder'd  at  her  strength,  and  ask'd  her  of  it : 
'It  came,'  she  said,  'by  working  in  the  mines:' 

0  then  to  ask  her  of  my  shares,  I  thought ; 
And  ask'd ;  but  not  a  word ;  she  shook  her  head. 
And  then  the  motion  of  the  current  ceased, 
And  there  was  rolling  thunder;  and  we  reach'd 
A  mountain,  like  a  wall  of  burrs  and  thorns ; 
But  she  with  her  strong  feet  up  the  steep  hill 
Trod  out  a  path :  I  follow'd ;  and  at  top 

She  pointed  seaward :  there  a  fleet  of  glass, 
That  seem'd  a  fleet  of  jewels  under  me, 
Sailing  along  before  a  gloomy  cloud 
That  not  one  moment  ceased  to  thunder,  past 
In  sunshine ;  right  across  its  track  there  lay, 
Down  in  the  water,  a  long  reef  of  gold, 
Or  what  seem'd  gold :  and  I  was  glad  at  first 
To  think  that  in  our  often-ransacked  world 
Still  so  much  gold  was  left;  and  then  I  fear'd 
Lest  the  gay  navy  there  should  splinter  on  it, 
And  fearing  waved  my  arm  to  warn  them  off; 
An  idle  signal,  for  the  brittle  fleet 
(I  thought  I  could  have  died  to  save  it)  near'd, 
Touch'd,  clink'd,  and  clash'd,  and  vanish'd,  and  I 
woke, 

1  heard  the  clash  so  clearly.    Now  I  see 

My  dream  was  Life ;  the  woman  honest  Work ; 
And  my  poor  venture  but  a  fleet  of  glass, 
Wreck'd  on  a  reef  of  visionary  gold." 

"Nay,"  said  the  kindly  wife  to  comfort  him, 
"You  raised  your  arm,  you  tumbled  down  and  broke 
The  glass  with  little  Margaret's  medicine  in  it ; 
And,    breaking   that,   you    made   and    broke    your 

dream : 
A  trifle  makes  a  dream,  a  trifle  breaks." 

"No  trifle,"  groan 'd  the  husband;  "yesterday 
I  met  him  suddenly  in  the  street,  and  ask'd 
That  which  I  ask'd  the  woman  in  my  dream. 
Like  her,  he  shook  his  head.    '  Show  me  the  books '.' 
He  dodged  me  with  a  long  and  loose  account 
'  The  books,  the  books !'  but  he,  he  could  not  wait, 
Bound  on  a  matter  he  of  life  and  death : 
When  the  great  Books  (see  Daniel  seven  and  ten) 
Were  open'd,  I  should  find  he  meant  me  well : 
And  then  began  to  bloat  himself,  and  ooze 
All  over  with  the  fat  affectionate  smile 
That  makes  the  widow  lean.    'My  dearest  friend, 
Have  faith,  have  faith !    We  live  by  faith,'  said  h«  : 
'And  all  things  work  together  for  the  good 
Of  those ' — it  makes  me  sick  to  quote  him — last 
Gript  my  hand  hard,  and  with  God-bless-you  went. 
I  stood  like  one  that  had  received  a  blow: 
I  found  a  hard  friend  in  his  loose  accounts, 


214: 


SEA  DREAMS. 


A  loose  one  in  the  hard  grip  of  his  hand, 
A  curse  in  his  God-bless-you :  then  my  eyes 
Pursued  him  down  the  street,  and  far  away, 
Among  the  honest  shoulders  of  the  crowd, 
Eead  rascal  in  the  motions  of  his  back, 
And  scoundrel  in  the  supple-sliding  knee." 

"Was  he  so  bound,  poor  soul?"  said  the  good 

wife ; 

"So  are  we  all:  but  do  not  call  him,  love, 
Before  you  prove  him,  rogue,  and  proved,  forgive. 
His  gain  is  loss;  for  he  that  wrongs  his  friend 
Wrongs  himself  more,  and  ever  bears  about 
A  silent  court  of  justice  in  his  breast, 
Himself  the  judge  and  jury,  and  himself 
The  prisoner  at  the  bar,  ever  condemn'd: 
And  that  drags  down  his  life:  then  comes  what 

comes 

Hereafter:  arid  he  meant,  he  said  he  meant, 
Perhaps  he  meant,  or  partly  meant,  you  well." 

"'With  all  his  conscience  and  one  eye  askew'— 
Love,  let  me  quote  these  lines,  that  you  may  learn 
A  man  is  likewise  counsel  for  himself, 
Too  often  in  that  silent  court  of  yours— 
'  With  all  his  conscience  and  one  eye  askew, 
So  false,  he  partly  took  himself  for  true ; 
Whose  pious  talk,  when  most  his  heart  was  dry, 
Made  wet  the  crafty  crowsfoot  round  his  eye ; 
Who,  never  naming  God  except  for  gain, 
So  never  took  that  useful  name  in  vain ; 
Wade  Him  his  catspaw  and  the  Cross  his  tool, 
And  Christ  the  bait  to  trap  his  dupe  and  fool ; 
Nor  deeds  of  gift,  but  gifts  of  grace  he  forged, 
And  enakelike  slimed  his  victim  ere  he  gorged ; 
And  oft  at  Bible  meetings,  o'er  the  rest 
Arising,  did  his  holy  oily  best, 
Dropping  the  too  rough  H  in  Hell  and  Heaven, 
To  spread  the  Word  by  which  himself  had  thriven.' 
How  like  you  this  old  satire  ?" 

"Nay,"  she  said, 

"I  loathe  it:  he  had  never  kindly  heart, 
Nor  ever  cared  to  better  his  own  kind, 
Who  first  wrote  satire  with  no  pity  in  it 
But  will  you  hear  my  dream,  for  I  had  one 
That  altogether  went  to  music?    Still 
It  awed  me." 

Then  she  told  it,  having  dream'd 
Of  that  same  coast. 

*       — "But  round  the  North,  a  light, 
A  belt,  it  seem'd,  of  luminous  vapor,  lay, 
And  ever  in  it  a  low  musical  note 
Swell'd  up  and  died;  and,  as  it  swell'd,  a  ridge 
Of  breaker  issued  from  the  belt,  and  still 
Grew  with  the  growing  note,  and  when  the  note 
Had  reach'd  a  thunderous  fullness  on  those  cliffs 
Broke,  mixt  with  awful  light  (the  same  as  that 
Living  within  the  belt)  whereby  she  saw 
That  all  those  lines  of  cliffs  were  cliffs  no  more, 
But  huge  cathedral  fronts  of  every  age, 
Grave,  florid,  stern,  as  far  as  eye  could  see, 
One  after  one:  and  then  the  great  ridge  drew, 
Lessening  to  the  lessening  music,  back, 
And  past  into  the  belt  and  swell'd  again 
Slowly  to  music:  ever  when  it  broke 
The  statues,  king  or  saint,  or  founder,  fell : 
Then  from  the  gaps  and  chasms  of  ruin  left 
Came  men  and  women  in  dark  clusters  round, 
Some  crying  '  Set  them  up !  they  shall  not  fall !' 
And  others,  'Let  them  lie,  for  they  have  fall'n.' 
And  still  they  strove  and  wrangled :  and  she  grieved 
In  her  strange  dream,  she  knew  not  why,  to  find 
Their  wildest  wailings  never  out  of  tune 
With  that  sweet  note ;  and  ever  as  their  shrieks 
Ran  highest  up  the  gamut,  that  great  wave 


Returning,  while  none  mark'd  it,  on  the  crowd 
Broke,  mixt  with  awful  light,  and  show'd  their  eyes 
Glaring,  and  passionate  looks,  and  swept  away 
The  men  of  flesh  and  blood,  and  men  of  stone, 
To  the  waste  deeps  together. 

"Then  I  fist 

My  wistful  eyes  on  two  fair  images, 
Both  crown'd  with  stars  and  high  among  the  stars,— 
The  Virgin  Mother  standing  with  her  child 
High  up  on  one  of  those  dark  minster-fronts— 
Till  she  began  to  totter,  and  the  child 
Clung  to  the  mother,  and  sent  out  a  cry 
Which  mixt  with  little  Margaret's,  and  I  woke, 
And   my   dream  awed  me:  —  well  —  but  what  are 

dreams  ? 

Yours  came  but  from  the  breaking  of  a  glass, 
And  mine  but  from  the  crying  of  a  child." 

"Child?    No!"  said  he,  "but  this  tide's  roar,  and 

his, 

Our  Boanerges,  with  his  threats  of  doom, 
And  loud-lung'd  Antibabylonianisms 
(Altho'  I  grant  but  little  music  there) 
Went  both  to  make  your  dream:  but  if  there  \vere 
A  music  harmonizing  our  wild  cries, 
Sphere-music  such  as  that  you  dream'd  about, 
Why,  that  would  make  our  passions  far  too  like 
The  discords  dear  to  the  musician.    No — 
One  shriek  of  hate  would  jar  all  the  hymns  of 

heaven : 

True  Devils  with  no  ear,  they  howl  in  tune 
With  nothing  but  the  Devil  1" 

"  'True'  indeed! 

One  of  our  town,  but  later  by  an  hour 
Here  than  ourselves,  spoke  with  me  on  the  shore ; 
While  you  were  running  down  the  sands,  and  made 
The  dimpled  flounce  of  the  sea-furbelow  flap, 
Good  man,  to  please  the  child.    She  brought  strange 

news. 

Why  were  you  silent  when  I  spoke  to-night? 
I  had  set  my  heart  on  your  forgiving  him 
Before  you  knew.    We  must  forgive  the  dead." 

"  Dead !  who  is  dead  ?" 

"The  man  your  eye  pursued. 
A  little  after  you  had  parted  with  him, 
He  suddenly  dropt  dead  of  heart-disease." 

"Dead?  he?  of  heart-disease ?  what  heart  had  he 
To  die  of?  dead !" 

"  Ah,  dearest,  if  there  be 
A  devil  in  man,  there  is  an  angel  too, 
And  if  he  did  that  wrong  you  charge  him  with, 
His  angel  broke  his  heart.    But  your  rough  voice 
(You  spoke  so  loud)  has  roused  the  child  again. 
Sleep,  little  birdie,  sleep !  will  she  not  sleep 
Without  her  '  little  birdie  ?'  well  then,  sleep, 
And  I  will  sing  you  'birdie.'" 

Saying  this, 

The  woman  half  tum'd  round  from  him  she  loved, 
Left  him  one  hand,  and  reaching  thro'  the  night 
Her  other,  found  (for  it  was  close  beside) 
And  half  embraced  the  basket  cradle-head 
With  one  soft  arm,  which,  like  the  pliant  bough 
That  moving  moves  the  nest  and  nestling,  sway'd 
The  cradle,  while  she  sang  this  baby  song. 

What  does  little  birdie  say 
In  her  nest  at  peep  of  day  ? 
Let  me  fly,  says  little  birdie, 
Mother,  let  me  fly  away. 
Birdie,  rest  a  little  longer, 
Till  the  little  wings  are  stronger. 


THE  GRANDMOTHER. 


215 


So  she  rests  a  little  longer, 
Then  ehe  flies  away. 

What  does  little  baby  say, 
In  her  bed  at  peep  of  day? 
Baby  says,  like  little  birdie, 
Let  me  rise  and  fly  away. 
Baby,  sleep  a  little  longer, 
Till  the  little  limbs  are  stronger. 
If  she  sleeps  a  little  longer, 
Baby  too  shall  fly  away. 


"She  sleeps:  let  us  too,  let  all  evil,  sleep. 
He  also  sleeps — another  sleep  than  ours. 
He  can  do  no  more  wrong :  forgive  him,  dear, 
And  I  shall  sleep  the  sounder  !" 

Then  the  man, 

"His  deeds  yet  live,  the  worst  is  yet  to  come. 
Yet  let  your  sleep  for  this  one  night  be  sound: 
I  do  forgive  him!" 

"Thanks,  my  love,"  she  said, 
"  Your  own  will  be  the  sweeter,"  and  they  elept. 


THE  GRANDMOTHER. 

I. 

AXD  Willy,  my  eldest-born,  is  gone,  you  say,  little  Anne  ? 
Ruddy  and  white,  and  strong  on  his  legs,  he  looks  like  a  man. 
And  Willy's  wife  has  written :  she  never  -was  over-wise, 
Never  the  wife  for  Willy:  he  would  n't  take  my  advice. 

II. 

For,  Annie,  yon  see,  her  father  was  not  the  man  to  save, 
Had  n't  a  head  to  manage,  and  drank  himself  into  his  grave. 
Pretty  enough,  very  pretty !  but  I  was  against  it  for  one. 
Eh !— but  he  would  n't  hear  me— and  Willy,  you  say,  is  gone. 

III. 

Willy,  my  beauty,  my  eldest-born,  the  flower  of  the  flock; 

Kever  a  man  could  fling  him:  for  Willy  stood  like  a  rock. 

"Here's  a  leg  for  a  baby  of  a  week!"  says  doctor:  and  he  would  be  bound, 

There  was  not  his  like  that  year  in  twenty  parishes  round. 

IV. 

Strong  of  his  hands,  and  strong  on  his  legs,  but  still  of  his  tongue ! 
I  ought  to  have  gone  before  him:  I  wonder  he  went  BO  young. 
I  cannot  cry  for  him,  Annie :  I  have  not  long  to  stay ; 
Perhaps  I  shall  see  him  the  sooner,  for  he  lived  far  away. 

V. 

Why  do  you  look  at  me,  Annie  f  you  think  I  am  hard  and  cold ; 
But  all  my  children  have  gone  before  me,  I  am  so  old : 
I  cannot  weep  for  Willy,  nor  can  I  weep  for  the  rest ; 
Only  at  your  age,  Annie,  I  could  have  wept  with  the  best 

VI. 

For  I  remember  a  quarrel  I  had  with  yonr  father,  my  dear, 
All  for  a  slanderous  story,  that  cost  me  many  a  tear. 
I  mean  your  grandfather,  Annie :  it  cost  me  a  world  of  woe, 
Seventy  years  ago,  my  darling,  seventy  years  ago. 

VII. 

For  Jenny,  my  cousin,  had  come  to  the  place,  and  I  knew  right  well 
That  Jenny  had  tript  in  her  time :  I  knew,  but  I  would  not  tell. 
And  she  to  be  coming  and  slandering  me,  the  base  little  liar ! 
But  the  tongue  is  a  fire,  as  you  know,  my  dear,  the  tongue  is  a  fire. 

VIII. 

And  the  parson  made  it  his  text  that  week,  and  he  said  likewise, 
That  a  lie  which  is  half  a  truth  is  ever  the  blackest  of  lies, 
That  a  lie  which  is  all  a  lie  may  be  met  and  fought  with  outright, 
But  a  lie  which  is  part  a  truth  is  a  harder  matter  to  fight 

IX. 

And  Willy  had  not  been  down  to  the  farm  for  a  week  and  a  day; 
And  all  things  look'd  half-dead,  tho'  it  was  the  middle  of  May. 
Jenny,  to  slander  me,  who  knew  what  Jenny  had  been ! 
But  soiling  another,  Annie,  will  never  make  one's  self  clean. 


And  I  cried  myself  wellnigh  blind,  and  all  of  an  evening  late 

I  climb'd  to  the  top  of  the  garth,  and  stood  by  the  road  at  the  gate. 

The  moon  like  a  rick  on  fire  was  rising  over  the  dale, 

And  whit,  whit,  whit,  in  the  bush  beside  me  chirrnpt  the  nightingale. 


216  THE  GRANDMOTHEE. 


XL 

All  of  a  sudden  he  stopt :  there  past  hy  the  gate  of  the  farm, 
\Villy,— he  did  n't  see  me,— and  Jenny  hung  on  his  arm. 
Out  into  the  road  I  started,  and  spoke  I  scarce  knew  how; 
Ah,  there's  no  fool  like  the  old  one — it  makes  me  angry  now. 

XIL 

Willy  stood  up  like  a  man,  and  look'd  the  thing  that  he  meant ; 
Jenny,  the  viper,  made  me  a  mocking  courtesy  and  went. 
And  I  said,  "  Let  us  part :  in  a  hundred  years  it  '11  all  be  the  earns, 
You  cannot  love  me  at  all,  if  you  love  not  my  good  name." 

XIII. 

And  he  turn'd,  and  I  saw  his  eyes  all  wet,  in  the  sweet  moonshine: 
"Sweetheart,  I  love  you  so  well  that  your  good  name  is  mine. 
And  what  do  I  care  for  Jane,  let  her  speak  of  you  well  or  ill ; 
But  marry  me  out  of  hand:  we  too  shall  be  happy  still." 

XIV. 

'  Marry  yon,  Willy !"  said  I,  "  but  I  needs  must  speak  my  mind, 
And  I  fear  you'll  listen  to  tales,  be  jealous  and  hard  and  nnkind." 
Bjit  he  turn'd  and  claspt  me  in  his  arms,  and  answer'd,  "No,  love,  no;" 
Seventy  years  ago,  my  darling,  seventy  years  ago. 

XV. 

So  Willy  and  I  were  wedded :  I  wore  a  lilac  gown ; 
And  the  ringers  rang  with  a  will,  and  he  gave  the  ringers  a  crown. 
But  the  first  that  ever  I  bare  was  dead  before  he  was  born, 
Shadow  and  shine  is  life,  little  Annie,  flower  and  thorn. 

XVI. 

That  was  the  first  time,  too,  that  ever  I  thought  of  death. 

There  lay  the  sweet  little  body  that  never  had  drawn  a  breath. 

I  had  not  wept,  little  Annie,  not  since  I  had  been  a  wife ; 

But  I  wept  like  a  child  that  day,  for  the  babe  had  fought  for  his  life. 

XVIL 

His  dear  little  face  was  troubled,  as  if  with  anger  or  pain : 

I  look'd  at  the  still  little  body— his  trouble  had  all  been  in  vain. 

For  Willy  I  cannot  weep,  I  shall  see  him  another  morn : 

But  I  wept  like  a  child  for  the  child  that  was  dead  before  he  was  born. 

XVIII. 

But  he  cheer'd  me,  my  good  man,  for  he  seldom  said  me  nay : 
Kind,  like  a  man,  was  he ;  like  a  man,  too,  would  have  his  way : 
Never  jealous— not  he :  we  had  many  a  happy  year ; 
And  he  died,  and  I  could  not  weep — my  own  time  seem'd  so  near. 

XIX. 

But  I  wish'd  it  had  been  God's  will  that  I,  too,  then  could  have  died: 
I  began  to  be  tired  a  little,  and  fain  had  slept  at  his  side. 
And  that  was  ten  years  back,  or  more,  if  I  don't  forget : 
But  as  to  the  children,  Annie,  they  're  all  about  me  yet 

XX. 

Pattering  over  the  boards,  my  Annie  who  left  me  at  two, 
Patter  she  goes,  my  own  little  Annie,  an  Annie  like  you : 
Pattering  over  the  boards,  she  comes  and  goes  at  her  will, 
While  Harry  is  in  the  five-acre  and  Charlie  ploughing  the  hill. 

XXI. 

And  Harry  and  Charlie,  I  hear  them  too— they  sing  to  their  team : 
Often  they  come  to  the  door  in  a  pleasant  kind  of  a  dream. 
They  come  and  sit  by  my  chair,  they  hover  about  my  bed — 
I  am  not  always  certain  if  they  be  alive  or  dead. 

XXII. 

And  yet  I  know  for  a  truth,  there  's  none  of  them  left  alive  ; 
For  Harry  went  at  •eixty,  your  father  at  sixty-five : 
And  Willy,  my  eldest-born,  at  nigh  threescore  and  ten ; 
I  knew  them  all  as  babies,  and  now  they  're  elderly  men. 

XXIII. 

For  mine  is  a  time  of  peace,  it  is  not  often  I  grieve ; 
I  am  oftener  sitting  at  home  in  my  father's  farm  at  eve: 
And  the  neighbors  come  and  laugh  and  gossip,  and  so  do  I: 
I  find  myself  often  laughing  at  things  that  have  long  gone  by. 


NORTHERN  FARMER.  217 


XXIV. 

To  be  sure  the  preacher  says,  our  sins  should  make  us  sad : 
But  mine  is  a  time  of  peace,  and  there  is  Grace  to  be  had ; 
And  God,  not  man,  is  the  Judge  of  us  all  when  life  shall  cease ; 
And  in  this  Book,  little  Annie,  the  message  is  one  of  Peace. 

XXV. 

And  age  is  a  time  of  peace,  so  it  be  free  from  pain, 
And  happy  has  been  my  life ;  but  I  would  not  live  it  again. 
I  seem  to  be  tired  a  little,  that  's  all,  and  long  for  rest : 
Only  at  your  age,  Annie,  I  could  have  wept  with  the  best 

XXVI. 

80  Willy  has  gone,  my  beauty,  my  eldest-born,  my  flower ; 
But  how  can  I  weep  for  Willy,  he  has  but  gone  for  an  hour, — 
Gone  for  a  minute,  my  son,  from  this  room  into  the  next; 
I,  too,  shall  go  in  a  minute.    What  time  have  I  to  be  vext  ? 

XXVII. 

And  Willy's  wife  has  written,  she  never  was  over-wise. 
Get  me  my  glasses,  Annie:  thank  God  that  I  keep  my  eyes. 
There  is  but  a  trifle  left  you,  when  I  shall  have  past  away. 
But  stay  with  the  old  woman  now:  you  cannot  have  long  to  stay. 


NORTHERN  FARMER. 

OLD    STYLE. 
I. 

WIIEEK  'asta  bean  saw  long  and  meii  liggiu'  'ere  aloiin  ? 
Noorse?  thoort  iiowt  o'  a  noorse:  whoy,  doctor  's  abefln  an'  agoan: 
Says  that  I  mount  'a  naw  moor  yaiile:  but  I  beiint  a  fool: 
Git  ma  my  yaale,  for  I  beant  a-gooin'  to  break  my  rule. 

II. 

Doctors,  they  knaws  nowt,  for  a  says  what  's  nawways  true : 
Naw  soort  o'  koind  o'  use  to  saay  the  things  that  a  do. 
I  've  'ed  my  point  o'  yaal  ivry  noight  sin'  I  bean  'ere, 
An'  I  've  'ed  my  quart  ivry  market-noight  for  foorty  year. 

III. 

Parson  's  a  bean  loikewoise,  an'  a  sittin  'ere  o*  my  bed. 

"  The  amoighty  's  a  taakin  o'  you  to  'issen,  my  friend,"  'a  said, 

An'  a  towd  ma  my  sins,  an  's  toithe  were  due,  an'  I  gied  it  in  hond; 

I  done  my  duty  by  un,  as  I  'a  done  by  the  lond. 

IV. 

Larn'd  a  ma'  bea.    I  reckons  I  'annot  sa  mooch  to  larn. 

But  a  cost  oop,  thot  a  did,  'boot  Bessy  Harris's  barn. 

Thof  a  knaws  I  hallus  voiited  wi'  Squoire  an'  choorch  an  staute, 

An'  i'  the  woost  o'  toimes  I  wnr  niver  agin  the  raate. 

V. 

An'  I  hallus  corned  to  's  choorch  afoor  my  Sally  wnr  dead, 
An'  'eerd  un  a  bummin'  awaay  loike  a  buzzard-clock*  ower  my  yead, 
An'  I  niver  knaw'd  whot  a  mean'd  but  I  thowt  a  'ad  summut  to  saay, 
An'  I  thowt  a  said  whot  a  owt  to  'a  said  an'  I  corned  awaay. 

VI. 

Bessy  Harris's  barn !  tha  knaws  she  laaid  it  to  mea. 
Mowt  'a  bean,  mayhap,  for  she  wur  a  bad  mi,  shea. 
'Siver,  I  kep  un,  I  kep  un,  my  lass,  tha  mun  understoud ; 
I  done  my  duty  by  un  as  I  'a  done  by  the  lond. 

VII. 

But  Parson  a  comes  an'  a  goos,  an'  a  says  it  easy  an'  freea 
"The  amoighty  's  a  taakin  o'  you  to  'issen,  my  friend,"  says  'ea. 
I  weant  saay  men  be  loiars,  thof  summun  said  it  in  'aaste : 
But  a  reads  wonn  earmin  a  weeak,  an'  I  'a  stubb'd  Thornaby  waaste. 

VIIL 

D'  ya  moind  the  waaste,  my  lass  ?  naw,  naw,  tha  was  not  born  then ; 

Theer  wur  a  boggle  in  it,  I  often  'eerd  un  mysen ; 

Moast  loike  a  butter-bump,t  for  I  'eerd  un  aboot  an  aboot, 

But  I  stnbb'd  un  oop  wi'  the  lot:  and  raaved  an'  rembled  un  oot. 


218 


TITHONUS. 


IX. 

Reaper's  it  wur;  fo'  they  fun  nn  theer  a  laiiid  on  'is  faiice 
Doon  i'  the  woild  'enemies*  afoor  I  corned  to  the  plaiice. 
Noaks  or  Thimbleby— toner  'ed  shot  an  as  dead  as  a  nauil. 
Koaks  wur  'ang'd  for  it  oop  at  'soize— but  git  ma  my  yaale. 

X. 

Dubbut  looak  at  the  waaste :  theer  war  n't  not  fead  for  a  cow ; 
Nowt  at  all  but  bracken  an'  fuzz,  an'  looak  at  it  now — 
War  n't  worth  nowt  a  haacre,  an'  now  theer's  lots  o'  fead, 
Fourscore  yows  upon  it  an'  some  on  it  dooii  in  sead. 

XI. 

Nobbnt  a  bit  on  it 's  left,  an'  I  mean'd  to  'a  etubb'd  it  at  fall, 
Done  it  ta-year  I  mean'd,  an'  runn'd  plow  thrnff  it  an'  all, 
If  godamoighty  an1  parson  'ud  nobbut  let  ma  aloan, 
Mea,  wi'  haate  oonderd  haacre  o'  Squoire's  an'  load  o'  my  can. 

XII. 

Do  godamoighty  knaw  what  a  's  doing  a-taakin'  o'  mea  ? 
I  beant  wonn  as  saws  'ere  a  bean  an'  yonder  a  pea ; 
An'  Squoire  'all  be  sa  mad  an'  all— a1  dear  a'  dear ! 
And  I  'a  monaged  for  Squoire  come  Michaelmas  thirty  year. 

XIU. 

A  mowt  'a  taaken  Joanes,  as  'ant  a  'aapoth  o*  sense, 
Or  a  mowt  'a  taaken  Robins— a  niver  mended  a  fence: 
But  godamoighty  a  moost  taake  mea  an'  taiike  ma  now 
Wi'  auf  the  cows  to  cauve  an'  Thornaby  holms  to  plow ! 

XIV. 

Looak  'ow  quoloty  smoiles  when  they  seea  ma  a  passin'  by, 

Says  to  thessen  naw  doot  "  what  a  mon  a  be  sewer-ly !" 

For  they  knaws  what  I  bean  to  Squoire  sin  fust  a  corned  to  the  'All ; 

I  done  my  duty  by  Squoire  an'  I  done  my  duty  by  all. 

XV. 

Squoire  's  in  Lunnon,  an'  snmmnn  I  reckons  'all  'a  to  wroite, 
For  who  's  to  howd  the  lond  ater  mea  thot  muddles  ma  quoit ; 
Sartin-sewer  I  bea,  thot  a  weant  niver  give  it  to  Joanes, 
Neither  a  moant  to  Robins — a  niver  rembles  the  stoans. 

XVI. 

But  summnn  'ull  come  ater  mea  mayhap  wi'  'is  kittle  o'  steam 
Huzzin'  an'  maazin'  the  blessed  fealds  wi'  the  Divil's  oan  team 
Gin  I  mun  doy  I  mun  doy,  an'  loife  they  says  is  sweet, 
But  gin  I  mun  doy  I  mun  doy,  for  I  couldn  abear  to  see  it. 

XVII. 

What  atta  stnnnin'  theer  for,  an'  doesn  bring  ma  the  yaille  ? 
Doctor  's  a  'tottler,  lass,  and  a  's  hallns  i'  the  owd  taiile ; 
I  weant  break  rules  for  Doctor,  a  knaws  naw  moor  nor  a  floy ; 
Git  ma  my  yaale  I  tell  tha,  an'  gin  I  muu  doy  I  mun  doy. 


TITHONUS. 

THE  woods  decay,  the  woods  decay  and  fall, 

The  vapors  weep  their  burthen  to  the  ground, 

Man  comes  and  tills  the  field  and  lies  beneath, 

And  after  many  a  summer  dies  the  swan. 

Me  only  cruel  immortality 

Consumes :  I  wither  slowly  in  thine  arms, 

Here  at  the  quiet  -limit  of  the  world, 

A  white-hair'd  shadow  roaming  like  a  dream 

The  ever  silent  spaces  of  the  East, 

Far-folded  mists,  and  gleaming  halls  of  morn. 

Alas !  for  this  gray  shadow,  once  a  man- 
So  glorious  in  his  beauty  and  thy  choice, 
Who  madest  him  thy  chosen,  that  he  seem'd 
To  his  great  heart  none  other  than  a  God ! 
I  ask'd  thee  "Give  me  immortality." 
Then  did'st  thou  grant  mine  asking  with  a  smile, 
Like  wealthy  men  who  care  not  how  they  give. 


But  thy  strong  Hours  indignant  work'd  their  wills, 

And  beat  me  down  and  marred  and  wasted  me, 

And  tho'  they  could  not  end  me,  left  me  maini'd 

To  dwell  in  presence  of  immortal  youth, 

Immortal  age  beside  immortal  youth, 

And  all  I  was,  in  ashes.    Can  thy  love, 

Thy  beauty,  make  amends,  tho'  even  now, 

Close  over  ns,  the  silver  star,  thy  guide, 

Shines  in  those  tremulous  eyes  that  fill  with  tears 

To  hear  me  ?    Let  me  go :  take  back  thy  gift : 

Why  should  a  man  desire  in  any  way 

To  vary  from  the  kindly  race  of  men, 

Or  pass  beyond  the  goal  of  ordinance 

Where  all  should  pause,  as  is  most  meet  for  all  ? 

A  soft  air  fans  the  cloud  apart :  there  conies 
A  glimpse  of  that  dark  world  where  I  was  born. 
Once  more  the  old  mysterious  glimmer  steals 
From  thy  pure  brows,  and  from  thy  shoulders  pure. 


THE  VOYAGE. 


219 


And  bosom  beating  with  a  heart  renew' d. 
Thy  cheek  begins  to  redden  thro'  the  gloom, 
Thy  sweet  eyes  brighten  slowly  close  to  mine, 
Ere  yet  they  blind  the  stars,  aiid  the  wild  team 
Which  love  thee,  yearning  for  thy  yoke,  arise, 
And  shake  the  darkness  from  their  loosen'd  manes, 
And  beat  the  twilight  into  flakes  of  fire. 

Lo !  ever  thus  thou  growest  beautiful 
In  silence,  then  before  thine  answer  given 
Departest,  and  thy  tears  are  on  my  cheek. 

Why  wilt  thou  ever  scare  me  with  thy  tears, 
And  make  me  tremble  lest  a  saying  learnt 
In  days  far-off,  on  that  dark  earth,  be  true  ? 
"The  Gods  themselves  cannot  recall  their  gifts." 

Ay  me !  ay  me !  with  what  another  heart 
In  days  far-off,  and  with  what  other  eyes 
I  used  to  watch— if  I  be  he  that  watch'd— 
The  lucid  outline  forming  round  thee;  saw 
The  dim  curls  kindle  into  sunny  rings ; 
Changed  with  thy  mystic  change,  and  felt  my  blood 
Glow  with  the  glow  that  slowly  crimson'd  all 
Thy  presence  and  thy  portals,  while  I  lay, 
Mouth,  forehead,  eyelids,  growing  dewy-warm 
With  kisses  balmier  than  half-opening  buds 
Of  April,  and  could  hear  the  lips  that  kiss'd 
Whispering  I  knew  not  what  of  wild  and  sweet, 
Like  that  strange  song  I  heard  Apollo  sing, 
While  Uioii  like  a  mist  rose  into  towers. 

Yet  hold  me  not  forever  in  thine  East: 
How  can  my  nature  longer  mix  with  thine  ? 
Coldly  thy  rosy  shadows  bathe  me,  cold 
Are  all  thy  lights,  and  cold  my  wrinkled  feet 
Upon  thy  glimmering  thresholds,  when  the  steam 
Floats  up  from  those  dim  fields  about  the  homes 
Of  happy  men  that  have  the  power  to  die, 
And  grassy  barrows  of  the  happier  dead. 
Release  me,  and  restore  me  to  the  ground : 
Thou  seost  all  things,  thou  wilt  see  my  grave ; 
Thou  wilt  renew  thy  beauty  morn  by  morn ; 
I  earth  in  earth  forget  these  empty  courts, 
And  thee  returning  on  thy  silver  wheels. 


THE  VOYAGE. 
I. 

WE  left  behind  the  painted  buoy 

That  tosses  at  the  harbor-mouth : 
And  madly  danced  our  hearts  with  joy, 

As  fast  we  fleeted  to  the  South: 
How  fresh  was  every  sight  and  sound 

On  open  main  or  winding  shore ! 
We  knew  the  merry  world  was  round, 

And  we  might  sail  forevermore. 

II. 

Warm  broke  the  breeze  against  the  brow, 

Dry  sang  the  tackle,  sang  the  sail: 
The  Lady's-head  upon  the  prow 

Caught  the  shrill  salt,  and  sheer'd  the  gale. 
The  broad  seas  swell'd  to  meet  the  keel, 

And  swept  behind:  so  quick  the  run, 
We  felt  the  good  ship  shake  and  reel, 

We  seem'd  to  sail  into  the  Sun ! 

III. 

How  oft  we  saw  the  Sun  retire, 

And  burn  the  threshold  of  the  night, 
Fall  from  his  Ocean-lane  of  fire, 

And  sleep  beneath  his  pillar'd  light ! 
How  oft  the  purple-skirted  robe 

Of  twilight  slowly  downward  drawn, 
As  thro'  the  slumber  of  the  globe 

Again  we  dash'd  into  the  dawu! 


IV. 

New  stars  all  night  above  the  brim 

Of  waters  lighten'd  into  view  ; 
They  climb'd  as  quickly,  for  the  rim 

Changed  every  moment  as  we  flew. 
Far  ran  the  naked  moon  across 

The  houseless  ocean's  heaving  field, 
Or  flying  shone,  the  silver  boss 

Of  her  own  halo's  dusky  shield ; 

V. 

The  peaky  islet  shifted  shapes, 

High  towns  on  hills  were  dimly  seen, 
We  past  long  lines  of  Northern  capes 

And  dewy  Northern  meadows  green. 
We  came  to  warmer  waves,  and  deep 

Across  the  boundless  east  we  drove, 
Where  those  long  swells  of  breaker  sweep 

The  nutmeg  rocks  and  isles  of  clove. 

VI. 
By  peaks  that  flamed,  or,  all  in  shade, 

Gloom'd  the  low  coast  and  quivering  brine 
With  ashy  rains,  that  spreading  made 

Fantastic  plume  or  sable  pine ; 
By  sands  and  steaming  flats,  and  floods 

Of  mighty  mouth,  we  scudded  fast, 
And  hills  and  scarlet-mingled  woods 

Glow'd  for  a  moment  as  we  past. 

VII. 

O  hundred  shores  of  happy  dimes, 

How  swiftly  stream'd  ye  by  the  bark  I 
At  times  the  whole  sea  bnrn'd,  at  times 

With  wakes  of  fire  we  tore  the  dark; 
At  times  a  carven  craft  would  shoot 

From  havens  hid  in  fairy  bowers, 
With  naked  limbs  and  flowers  and  fruit, 

But  we  nor  paused  for  fruits  nor  flowers. 

VIII. 

For  one  fair  Vision  ever  fled 

Down  the  waste  waters  day  and  night, 
And  still  we  follow'd  where  she  led, 

In  hope  to  gain  upon  her  flight 
Her  face  was  evermore  unseen, 

And  fist  upon  the  far  sea-line; 
But  each  man  murmur'd,  "O  my  Queen, 

I  follow  till  I  make  thee  mine." 

IX. 

And  now  we  lost  her,  now  she  gleam'd 

Like  Fancy  made  of  golden  air. 
Now  nearer  to  the  prow  she  seem'd 

Like  Virtue  firm,  like  Knowledge  fair, 
Now  high  on  waves  that  idly  burst 

Like  Heavenly  Hope  she  crown' d  the  sea, 
And  now,  the  bloodless  point  reversed, 

She  bore  the  blade  of  Liberty. 

X. 

And  only  one  among  us— him 

We  pleased  not — he  was  seldom  pleased: 
He  saw  not  far:  his  eyes  were  dim: 

But  ours  he  swore  were  all  diseased. 
"  A  ship  of  fools,"  he  shriek'd  in  spite, 

"  A  ship  of  fools,"  he  sneer'd  and  wept. 
And  overboard  one  stormy  night 

He  cast  his  body,  and  on  we  swept. 

XI. 

And  never  sail  of  ours  was  furl'd, 

Nor  anchor  dropt  at  eve  or  morn ; 
We  loved  the  glories  of  the  world ; 

But  laws  of  nature  were  our  scorn ; 
For  blasts  would  rise  and  rave  and  cease, 

But  whence  were  those  that  drove  the  sail 
Across  the  whirlwind's  heart  of  peace, 

And  to  and  thro'  the  counter-gale  ? 


220 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  CAUTERETZ.— THE  RINGLET. 


XII. 
Again  to  colder  climes  we  came, 

For  still  we  follow'd  where  she  led: 
Now  mate  is  blind  and  captain  lame, 

And  half  the  crew  are  sick  or  dead. 
But  blind  or  lame  or  sick  or  sound, 

We  follow  that  which  flies  before : 
We  know  the  merry  world  is  round, 

And  we  may  sail  forevermore. 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  CAUTERETZ. 

ALL  along  the  valley,  stream  that  flashest  white, 

Deepening  thy  voice  with  the  deepening  of  the  night, 

All  along  the  valley,  where  thy  waters  flow, 

I  walk'd  with  one  I  loved  two  and  thirty  years  ago. 

All  along  the  valley,  while  I  walk'd  to-day, 

The  two  and  thirty  years  were  a  mist  that  rolls  away; 

For  all  along  the  valley,  down  thy  rocky  bed, 

Thy  living  voice  to  me  was  as  the  voice  of  the  dead, 

And  all  along  the  valley,  by  rock  and  cave  and  tree, 

The  voice  of  the  dead  was  a  living  voice  to  me. 


THE  FLOWER. 

ONOE  in  a  golden  hour 

I  cast  to  earth  a  seed. 
Up  there  came  a  flower, 

The  people  said,  a  weed. 

To  and  fro  they  went 
Thro'  my  garden-bower, 

And  muttering  discontent 
Cursed  me  and  my  flower. 

Then  it  grew  BO  tall 
It  wore  a  crown  of  light, 

But  thieves  from  o'er  the  wall 
Stole  the  seed  by  night. 

Sow'd  it  far  and  wide 
By  every  town  and  tower, 

Till  all  the  people  cried, 
"  Splendid  is  the  flower." 

Read  my  little  fable : 
He  that  runs  may  read. 

Most  can  raise  the  flowers  now, 
For  all  have  got  the  seed. 

And  some  are  pretty  enough, 
And  some  are  poor  indeed; 

And  now  again  the  people 
Call  it  but  a  weed. 


THE  ISLET. 

"WniTiiER,  O  whither,  love,  shall  we  go, 
For  a  score  of  sweet  little  summers  or  BO  ?" 
.  The  sweet  little  wife  of  the  singer  said 
On  the  day  that  follow'd  the  day  she  was  wed ; 
'  Whither,  O  whither,  love,  shall  we  go  ?' 
And  the  singer  shaking  his  curly  head 
Tnrn'd  as  he  sat,  and  struck  the  keys 
There  at  his  right  with  a  sudden  crash, 
Singing,  "  And  shall  it  be  over  the  seas 
With  a  crew  that  is  neither  rude  nor  rash, 
But  a  bevy  of  Eroses  apple-cheek'd, 
In  a  shallop  of  crystal  ivory-beak'd, 
With  a  satin  sail  of  a  ruby  glow, 
To  a  sweet  little  Eden  on  earth  that  I  know, 
A  mountain  islet  pointed  and  peak'd ; 
Waves  on  a  diamond  shingle  dash, 


Cataract  brooks  to  the  ocean  run, 
Fairily-delicate  palaces  shine 
Mixt  with  myrtle  and  clad  with  vine, 
And  overstream'd  and  silvery-streak'd 
With  many  a  rivulet  high  against  the  Sun 
The  facets  of  the  glorious  mountain  flash 
Above  the  valleys  of  palm  and  pine." 

"  Thither,  O  thither,  love,  let  us  go." 

"No,  no,  no! 

For  in  all  that  exquisite  isle,  my  dear, 

There  is  but  one  bird  with  a  musical  throat, 

And  his  compass  is  but  of  a  single  note, 

That  it  makes  one  weary  to  hear." 

"Mock  me  not !  mock  me  not!  love,  let  us  go." 

"No,  love,  no. 

For  the  bud  ever  breaks  into  bloom  on  the  tree, 
And  a  storm  never  wakes  on  the  lonely  sea, 
And  a  worm  is  there  in  the  lonely  wood, 
That  pierces  the  liver  and  blackens  the  blood, 
And  makes  it  a  sorrow  to  be." 


REQUIESCAT. 

FATU  is  her  cottage  in  its  place, 

Where  yon  broad  water  sweetly  slowly  glides. 
It  sees  itself  from  thatch  to  base 

Dream  in  the  sliding  tides. 

And  fairer  she,  but  ah,  how  soon  to  die ! 

Her  quiet  dream  of  life  this  hour  may  cease. 
Her  peaceful  being  slowly  passes  by 

To  some  more  perfect  peace. 


THE  SAILOR-BOY. 

HE  rose  at  dawn  and,  fired  with  hope, 
Shot  o'er  the  seething  harbor-bar, 

And  reach'd  the  ship  and  caught  the  rope, 
And  whistled  to  the  morning  star. 

And  while  he  whistled  long  and  loud 
He  heard  a  fierce  mermaiden  cry, 

"  O  Boy,  tho'  thou  art  young  and  proud, 
I  see  the  place  where  thou  wilt  lie. 

"The  sands  and  yeasty  surges  mix 

In  caves  about  the  dreary  bay, 
And  on  thy  ribs  the  limpet  stick?, 

And  in  thy  heart  the  scrawl  shall  play." 

"Fool,"  he  answer' d,  "death  is  sure 
To  those  that  stay  and  those  that  roam, 

But  I  will  nevermore  endure 
To  sit  with  empty  hands  at  home. 

"My  mother  clings  about  my  neck, 
My  sisters  crying,  '  Stay,  for  shame  ;' 

My  father  raves  of  death  and  wreck, 
They  are  all  to  blame,  they  are  all  to  blams. 

"  God  help  me !  save  I  take  my  part 

Of  danger  on  the  roaring  sea, 
A  devil  rises  in  my  heart, 

Far  worse  than  any  death  to  me." 


THE  RINGLET. 

"Tons  ringlets,  your  ringlets, 
That  look  so  golden-gay, 

If  you  will  give  me  one,  but  on«, 
To  kiss  it  night  and  day, 


A  WELCOME  TO  ALEXANDRA.— A  DEDICATION. 


£21 


Then  never  chilling  touch  of  Time 

Will  turn  it  silver-gray ; 
Aud  then  shall  I  know  it  is  all  true  gold 
To  flame  and  sparkle  and  stream  as  of  old, 
Till  all  the  comets  iu  heaven  are  cold, 

And  all  her  stars  decay." 
"  Then  take  it,  love,  and  put  it  by; 
This  cannot  change,  nor  yet  can  L" 

2. 

"My  ringlet,  my  ringlet, 

That  art  so  golden-gay, 
Now  never  chilling  touch  of  Time 

Can  turn  thee  silver-gray; 
And  a  lad  may  wink,  and  a  girl  may  hint, 

And  a  fool  may  say  his  say ; 
For  my  doubts  and  fears  were  all  amiss, 
And  I  swear  henceforth  by  this  and  this, 
That  a  doubt  will  only  come  for  a  kiss, 

And  a  fear  to  be  kiss'd  away." 
"Then  kiss  it,  love,  and  put  it  by: 
If  this  can  change,  why  so  can  L" 


0  Ringlet,  O  Ringlet, 

I  kiss'd  you  night  and  day, 
And  Ringlet,  O  Ringlet, 

You  still  are  golden-gay, 
But  Ringlet,  O  Ringlet, 

You  should  be  silver-gray: 
For  what  is  this  which  now  I'm  told, 

1  that  took  you  for  true  gold, 

She  that  gave  you 's  bought  and  sold, 
Sold,  sold. 

2. 

O  Ringlet,  O  Ringlet, 

She  blush'd  a  rosy  red, 
When  Ringlet,  O  Ringlet, 

She  dipt  you  from  her  head, 
And  Ringlet,  O  Ringlet, 

She  gave  you  me,  and  said, 
"  Come,  kiss  it,  love,  and  put  it  by : 
If  this  can  change,  why  so  can  I." 
O  fie,  you  golden  nothing,  fie 

You  golden  lie. 

3. 
O  Ringlet,  O  Ringlet, 

I  count  you  much  to  blame, 
For  Ringlet,  O  Ringlet, 

You  put  me  much  to  shame, 
So  Ringlet,  O  Ringlet, 

I  doom  you  to  the  flame. 
For  what  is  this  which  now  I  learn, 
Has  given  all  my  faith  a  turn  ? 
Barn,  you  glossy  heretic,  burn, 
Burn,  burn. 


A  WELCOME  TO  ALEXANDRA. 
MARCH  7, 1863. 

SEA-KINGS'  daughter  from  over  the  sen, 

Alexandra ! 

Saxon  and  Norman  and  Dane  are  we, 

But  all  of  us  Danes  in  our  welcome  of  thee, 

Alexandra  1 

Welcome  her,  thunders  of  fort  and  of  fleet ! 

Welcome  her,  thundering  cheer  of  the  street ! 

Welcome  her,  all  things  youthful  and  sweet, 

Scatter  the  blossom  under  her  feet! 

Break,  happy  land,  into  earlier  flowers ! 

Make  music,  O  bird,  in  the  new-budded  bowers ! 

Blazon  your  mottoes  of  blessing  and  prayer  ! 

Welcome  her,  welcome  her,  all  that  is  ours ! 


Warble,  O  bugle,  and  trumpet,  blare ! 
Flags,  flutter  out  upon  turrets  and  towers ! 
Flames,  on  the  windy  headland  flare ! 
Utter  your  jubilee,  steeple  and  spire  ! 
Clash,  ye  bells,  in  the  merry  March  air ! 
Flash,  ye  cities,  in  rivers  of  fire  ! 
Rush  to  the  roof,  sudden  rocket,  and  higher 
Melt  into  the  stars  for  the  land's  desire  1 
Roll  and  rejoice,  jubilant  voice, 
Roll  as  a  ground-swell  dash'd  on  the  strand, 
Roar  as  the  sea  when  he  welcomes  the  land, 
And  welcome  her,  welcome  the  land's  desire, 
The  sea-kings'  daughter  as  happy  as  fair, 
Blissful  bride  of  a  blissful  heir, 
Bride  of  the  heir  of  the  kings  of  the  sea— 
O  joy  to  the  people,  and  joy  to  the  throne, 
Come  to  us,  love  us,  and  make  us  your  own . 
For  Saxon  or  Dane  or  Norman  we, 
Teuton  or  Celt,  or  whatever  we  be, 
We  are  each  all  Dane  in  our  welcome  of  thee, 

Alexandra ! 


ODE  SUNG  AT  THE  OPENING  OF  THE 
INTERNATIONAL  EXHIBITION. 

UPLIFT  a  thousand  voices  full  and  sweet, 
In  this  wide  hall  with  earth's  invention  stored, 
And  praise  th'  invisible  universal  Lord, 

Who  lets  once  more  in  peace  the  nations  meet, 
Where  Science,  Art,  and  Labor  have  ontpour'd 

Their  myriad  horns  of  plenty  at  our  feet 

O  silent  father  of  our  Kings  to  be 

Mouru'd  in  this  golden  hour  of  jubilee, 

For  this,  for  all,  we  weep  our  thanks  to  thee ! 

The  world-compelling  plan  was  thine, 

And  lo !  the  long  laborious  miles, 

Of  Palace ;  lo !  the  giant  aisles, 

Rich  in  model  and  design ; 

Harvest-tool  and  husbandry, 

Loom  and  wheel  and  engiu'ry, 

Secrets  of  the  sullen  mine, 

Steel  and  gold,  and  corn  and  wine, 

Fabric  rough,  or  Fairy  fine, 

Sunny  tokens  of  the  Line, 

Polar  marvels,  and  a  feast 

Of  wonder  out  of  West  and  East, 

And  shapes  and  hues  of  Art  divine ! 

All  of  beauty,  all  of  use, 

That  one  fair  planet  can  produce. 

Brought  from  under  every  star, 
Blown  from  over  every  main, 
And  mixt,  as  life  is  mixt  with  pain, 

The  works  of  peace  with  works  of  war. 

O  ye,  the  wise  who  think,  the  wise  who  reign, 
From  growing  commerce  loose  her  latest  chain. 
And  let  the  fair  white-winged  peacemaker  fly 
To  happy  havens  under  all  the  sky, 
And  mix  the  seasons  and  the  golden  hours, 
Till  each  man  finds  his  own  in  all  men's  good, 
And  all  men  work  in  noble  brotherhood, 
Breaking  their  mailed  fleets  and  armed  towers, 
Aud  ruling  by  obeying  Nature's  powers, 
And  gathering  all  the  fruits  of  peace  and  crown'd 
with  all  her  flowers. 


A  DEDICATION. 

DEAE,  near  and  true— no  truer  Time  himself 
Can  prove  you,  tho'  he  make  you  evermore 
Dearer  and  nearer,  as  the  rapid  of  life 
Shoots  to  the  fall— take  this,  and  pray  that  he, 


223    THE  CAPTAIN.— THREE  SONNETS  TO  A  COQUETTE.— ON  A  MOURNER. 


Who  wrote  it,  honoring  your  sweet  faith  in  him, 
May  trust  himself;  and  spite  of  praise  and  scorn, 
As  one  who  feels  the  immeasurable  world, 
Attain  the  wise  indifference  of  the  wise ; 
And  after  Autumn  past— if  left  to  pass 
His  autumn  into  seeming-leafless  days — 
Draw  toward  the  long  frost  and  longest  night, 
Wearing  his  wisdom  lightly,  like  the  fruit 
Which  in  our  winter  woodland  looks  a  flower.' 


THE  CAPTAIN. 

A   LEGEND  OF   THE   NAVY. 

HE  that  only  rules  by  terror 

Doeth  grievous  wrong. 
Deep  as  Hell  I  count  his  error, 

Let  him  hear  my  song. 
Brave  the  Captain  was:  the  seamen 

Made  a  gallant  crew, 
Gallant  sons  of  English  freemen, 

Sailors  bold  and  true, 
But  they  hated  his  oppression, 

Stern  he  was  and  rash; 
So  for  every  light  transgression 

Doom'd  them  to  the  lash. 
Day  by  day  more  harsh  and  cruel 

Seem'd  the  Captain's  mood. 
Secret  wrath  like  smother'd  fuel 

Burnt  in  each  man's  blood. 
Yet  he  hoped  to  purchase  glory, 

Hoped  to  make  the  name 
Of  his  vessel  great  in  story, 

Wheresoe'er  he  came. 
So  they  past  by  capes  and  islands, 

Many  a  harbor-month, 
Sailing  nnder  palmy  highlands 

Far  within  the  South. 
On  a  day  when  they  were  going 

O'er  the  lone  expanse, 
In  the  North,  her  canvas  flowing, 

Rose  a  ship  of  France. 
Then  the  Captain's  color  heighten'd 

Joyful  came  his  speech: 
But  a  cloudy  gladness  lighten'd 

In  the  eyes  of  each. 
"Chase,"  he  said:  the  ship  flew  forward, 

And  the  wind  did  blow: 
Stately,  lightly,  went  she  Norward, 

Till  she  near'd  the  foe. 
Then  they  look'd  at  him  they  hated, 

Had  what  they  desired : 
Mute  with  folded  arms  they  waited— 

Not  a  gun  was  fired. 
But  they  heard  the  foeman's  thunder 

Roaring  out  their  doom; 
All  the  air  was  torn  in  sunder, 

Crashing  went  the  boom, 
Spars  were  splinter'd,  decks  were  shatler'd, 

Bullets  fell  like  rain; 
Over  mast  and  deck  were  scatter'd 

Blood  and  brains  of  men. 
Spars  were  gplinter'd :  decks  were  broken  : 

Every  mother's  son — 
Down  they  dropt — no  word  was  spoken — 

Each  beside  his  gun. 
On  the  decks  as  they  were  lying, 

Were  their  faces  grim. 
In  their  blood,  as  they  lay  dying, 

Did  they  smile  on  him. 
Those,  in  whom  he  had  reliance 

For  his  noble  name, 
With  one  smile  of  still  defiance 

Sold  him  unto  shame. 
Shame  and  wrath  his  heart  confounded, 

Pale  he  turn'd  and  red, 

*  The  fruit  of  the  Spindle-tree  (Euonymui  Ettropaut). 


Till  himself  was  deadly  wounded 

Falling  on  the  dead. 
Dismal  error !   fearful  slaughter ! 

Years  have  wauder'd  by, 
Side  by  side  beneath  the  water 

Crew  and  Captain  lie ; 
There  the  sunlit  ocean  tosses 

O'er  them  mouldering, 
And  the  lonely  seabird  crosses 

With  one  waft  of  the  wing. 


THREE  SONNETS  TO  A  COQUETTE. 

CABESS'D  or  chidden  by  the  dainty  hand,          , 

And  singing  airy  trifles  this  or  that, 
Light  Hope  at  Beauty's  call  would  perch  and  stand, 

And  run  thro'  every  change  of  sharp  and  flat : 

And  Fancy  came  and  at  her  pillow  sat, 
When  Sleep  had  bound  her  in  his  rosy  band, 

And  chased  away  the  still-recurring  gnat, 
And  woke  her  with  a  lay  from  fairy  land. 
But  now  they  live  with  Beauty  less  and  less, 

For  Hope  is  other  Hope  and  wanders  far, 

Nor  cares  to  lisp  in  love's  delicious  creeds; 
And  Fancy  watches  in  the  wilderness, 

Poor  Fancy  sadder  than  a  single  star, 
That  sets  at  twilight  in  a  land  of  reeds. 


The  form,  the  form  alone  is  eloquent ! 
A  nobler  yearning  never  broke  her  rest 
Than  but  to  dance  and  sing,  be  gayly  drest, 
And  win  all  eyes  with  all  accomplishment: 
Yet  in  the  waltzing-circle  as  we  went, 
My  fancy  made  me  for  a  moment  blest 
To  find  my  heart  so  near  the  beauteous  breast 
That  once  had  power  to  rob  it  of  content. 
A  moment  came  the  tenderness  of  tears, 
The  phantom  of -a  wish  that  once  could  move, 
A  ghost  of  passion  that  no  smiles  restore — 
For  ah !  the  slight  coquette,  she  cannot  love, 
And  if  you  kiss'd  her  feet  a  thousand  years, 

She  still  would  take  the  praise,  and  care  no 
more. 

3. 

Wan  Sculptor,  weepest  thou  to  take  the  cast 
Of  those  dead  lineaments  that  near  thee  lie  ? 

0  sorrowest  thou,  pale  Painter,  for  the  past, 
In  painting  some  dead  friend  from  memory  ? 

Weep  on :  beyond  his  object  Love  can  last : 
His  object  lives:  more  cause  to  weep  have  I: 

My  tears,  no  tears  of  love,  are  flowing  fast, 
No  tears  of  love,  but  tears  that  Love  can  die. 

1  pledge  her  not  in  any  cheerful  cup, 

Nor  care  to  sit  beside  her  where  she  sits — 

Ah  pity — hint  it  not  in  human  tones, 
But  breathe  it  into  earth  and  close  it  tip 
With  secret  death  forever,  in  the  pits 
Which  some  green  Christinas  crams  with  weary 
bones. 


ON  A  MOURNER. 

NATURE,  so  far  as  in  her  lies, 
Imitates  God,  and  turns  her  face 

To  every  land  beneath  the  skies, 
Counts  nothing  that  she  meets  with 
But  lives  and  loves  in  every  place  ; 


2. 

Fills  out  the  homely  quick-set  screens, 
And  makes  the  purple  lilac  ripe, 

Steps  from  her  airy  hill,  and  greens 
The  swamp,  where  hums  the  dropping  snipe, 
With  moss  and  braided  marish-pipe  ; 


SONGS.—  BOADICEA. 


223 


And  on  thy  heart  a  finger  lays, 
Saying,  "Beat  quicker,  for  the  time 

Is  pleasant,  and  the  woods  and  ways 
Are  pleasant,  and  the  beech  and  lime 
Put  forth  and  feel  a  gladder  clime." 

4. 

And  murmurs  of  a  deeper  voice, 
Going  before  to  some  far  shrine, 

Teach  that  sick  heart  the  stronger  choice, 
Till  all  thy  life  one  way  incline 
With  one  wide  will  that  closes  thine. 

5. 

And  when  the  zoning  eve  has  died 
Where  you  dark  valleys  wind  forlorn, 

Come  Hope  and  Memory,  spouse  and  bride, 
From  ont  the  borders  of  the  morn,. 
With  that  fair  child  betwixt  them  born. 

C. 

And  when  no  mortal  motion  jars 
The  blackness  round  the  tombing  sod, 

Thro'  silence  and  the  trembling  stars 
Comes  Faith  from  tracts  no  feet  have  trod, 
And  Virtue,  like  a  household  god, 

7. 

promising  empire ;  such  as  those 
That  once  at  dead  of  night  did  greet 


Troy's  wandering  prince,  so  that  he  rose 
With  sacrifice,  while  all  the  fleet 
Had  rest  by  stony  hills  of  Crete. 


SONG. 

LADV,  let  the  rolling  drums 
Beat  to  battle  where  thy  warrior  stands : 

Now  thy  face  across  his  fancy  comes, 
And  gives  the  battle  to  his  hands. 

Lady,  let  the  trumpets  blow, 
Clasp  thy  little  babes  about  thy  knee  : 

Now  their  warrior  father  meets  the  foe, 
And  strikes  him  dead  for  thine  and  thee. 


SONG. 

HOME  they  brought  him  slain  with  spears. 

They  brought  him  home  at  even-fall: 
All  alone  she  sits  and  hears 

Echoes  in  his  empty  hall, 

Sounding  on  the  morrow. 

The  Sun  peep'd  in  from  open  field, 
The  boy  began  to  leap  and  prance, 
Rode  upon  his  father's  lance, 

Beat  upon  his  father's  shield— 

"  O  hush,  my  joy,  nfy  sorrow." 


E  X  P  E  R  I  M  E  N  T  S . 

BOADICEA. 

WHILE  about  the  shore  of  Moua  those  Neronian  legionaries 
Burnt  and  broke  the  grove  and  altar  of  the  Druid  aud  Druidess, 
Far  in  the  east  Boadicea,  standing  loftily  charioted, 
Mad  and  maddening  all  that  heard  her  in  her  fierce  volubility, 
Girt  by  half  the  tribes  of  Britain,  near  the  colony  Ciimuloduna 
Yell'd  and  shriek'd  between  her  daughters  o'er  a  wild  confederacy. 

"They  that  scorn  the  tribes  and  call  us  Britain's  barbarous  populaces, 
Did  they  hear  me,  would  they  listen,  did  they  pity  me  supplicating? 
Shall  I  heed  them  in  their  anguish  ?  shall  I  brook  to  be  supplicated  ? 
Hear  Icenian,  Catieuchlanian,  hear  Coritanian,  Trinobant ! 
Must  their  ever-ravening  eagle's. beak  and  talon  annihilate  us? 
Tear  the  noble  heart  of  Britain,  leave  it  gorily  quivering  ? 
Bark  an  answer,  Britain's  raven !  bark  and  blacken  innumerable, 
Blacken  round  the  Roman  carrion,  make  the  carcass  a  skeleton, 
Kite  aud  kestrel,  wolf  and  wolfkin,  from  the  wilderness,  wallow  in  it, 
Till  the  face  of  Bel  be  brighten'd,  Taranis  be  propitiated. 
Lo  their  colony  half-defended  !  lo  their  colony,  Camulodune ! 
There  the  horde  of  Roman  robbers  mock  at  a  barbarous  adversary. 
There  the  hive  of  Roman  liars  worship  a  gluttonous  emperor-idiot 
Such  is  Rome,  and  this  her  deity :  hear  it,  Spirit  of  Cassivelaun  1 

"  Hear  it,  Gods !  the  Gods  have  heard  it,  O  Icenian,  O  Coritanian  I 
Doubt  not  ye  the  Gods  have  answer'd,  Catieuchlaniau,  Trinobant. 
These  have  told  us  all  their  anger  in  miraculous  utterances, 
Thunder,  a  flying  fire  in  heaven,  a  murmur  heard  aerially, 
Phantom  sound  of  blows  descending,  moan  of  an  enemy  massacred, 
Phantom  wail  of  women  and  children,  multitudinous  agonies. 
Bloodily  flow'd  the  Tamesa  rolling  phantom  bodies  of  horses  and  men ; 
Then  a  phantom  colony  smonlder'd  on  the  refluent  estuary ; 
Lastly  yonder  yester-even,  suddenly  giddily  tottering — 
There  was  one  who  watch'd  and  told  me— down  their  statue  of  Victory  ieli, 
Lo  their  precious  Roman  bantling,  lo  the  colony  Camnlodune, 
Shall  we  teach  it  a  Roman  lesson?  shall  we  care  to  be  pitiful? 
Shall  we  deal  with  it  as  an  infant  ?  shall  we  dandle  it  amorously  ? 

"Hear  Iceman,  Catienchlanian,  hear  Coritanian,  Triuobant  J 
While  I  roved  about  the  forest,  long  and  bitterly  meditating, 


224 


IN  QUANTITY. 


There  I  heard  them  iu  the  darkness,  at  the  mystical  ceremony, 

Loosely  robed  in  flying  raiment,  sang  the  terrible  prophetesses. 

'Fear  not,  isle  of  blowing  woodland,  isle  of  silvery  parapets ! 

Tho1  the  Roman  eagle  shadow  thee,  tho'  the  gathering  enemy  narrow  thee, 

Thou  shall  wax  and  he  shall  dwindle,  thou  shall  be  the  mighty  one  yet ! 

Thine  the  liberty,  thine  the  glory,  thine  the  deeds  to  be  celebrated, 

Thine  the  myriad-rolling  ocean,  light  and  shadow  illimitable, 

Thiue  the  lauds  of  lasting  summer,  many-blossoming  Paradises, 

Thine  the  North  and  thine  the  South  and  thine  the  battle-thunder  of  God.' 

So  they  chanted:  how  shall  Britain  light  upon  auguries  happier? 

So  they  chanted  in  the  darkness,  and  there  conieth  a  victory  now. 

"  Hear  Icenian,  Catienchlanian,  hear  Coritauian,  Trinobaut ! 
Me  the  wife  of  rich  Prasutagus,  me  the  lover  of  liberty, 
Me  they  seized  and  me  they  tortured,  me  they  lash'd  and  humiliated, 
Me  the  sport  of  ribald  Veterans,  mine  of  ruffian  violators ! 
See  they  sit,  they  hide  their  faces,  miserable  in  ignominy  1 
Wherefore  in  me  burns  an  anger,  not  by  blood  to  be  satiated. 
Lo  the  palaces  and  the  temple,  lo  the  colony  Camulodune ! 
There  they  ruled,  and  thence  they  wasted  all  the  flourishing  territory, 
Thither  at  their  will  they  haled  the  yellow-ringleted  Britoness— 
Bloodily,  bloodily  fall  the  battle-axe,  unexhausted,  inexorable. 
Shout  Icenian,  Catieuchlanian,  shout  Coritanian,  Trinobant, 
Till  the  victim  hear  within  and  yearn  to  hurry  precipitously 
Like  the  leaf  in  a  roaring  whirlwind,  like  the  smoke  in  a  hurricane  whirl'd. 
Lo  the  colony,  there  they  rioted  in  the  city  of  Ciinobeline  ? 
There  they  drank  in  cups  of  emerald,  there  at  tables  of  ebony  lay, 
Rolling  on  their  purple  conches  in  their  tender  effeminacy. 
There  they  dwelt  and  there  they  rioted;  there— there— they  dwell  no  more. 
Burst  the  gates,  and  burn  the  palaces,  break  the  works  of  the  statuary, 
Take  the-  hoary  Roman  head  and  shatter  it,  hold  it  abominable, 
Cut  the  Roman  boy  to  pieces  in  his  lust  and  voluptuousness, 
Lash  the  maiden  into  swooning,  me  they  lash'd  and  humiliated, 
Chop  the  breasts  from  off  the  mother,  dash  the  brains  of  the  little  one  out, 
Up  my  Britons,  on  my  chariot,  on  my  chargers,  trample  them  under  us." 

So  the  Queen  Bofidicea,  standing  loftily  charioted, 
Brandishing  in  her  hand  a  dart  and  rolling  glances  lioness-like, 
Yelled  and  shrieked  between  her  daughters  in  her  fierce  volubility, 
Till  her  people  all  around  the  royal  chariot  agitated, 
Madly  dash'd  the  darts  together,  writhing  barbarous  lineaments, 
Made  the  noise  of  frosty  woodlands,  when  they  shiver  in  January, 
Roar'd  as  when  the  rolling  breakers  boom  and  blanch  on  the  precipices, 
Yell'd  as  when  the  winds  of  winter  tear  an  oak  on  a  promontory. 
So  the  silent  colony  hearing  her  tumultuous  adversaries 
Clash  the  darts  and  on  the  buckler  beat  with  rapid  unanimous  hand, 
Thought  on  all  her  evil  tyrannies,  all  her  pitiless  avarice, 
Till  she  felt  the  heart  within  her  fall  and  flutter  tremulously, 
Then  her  puises  at  the  clamoring  of  her  enemy  fainted  away. 
Out  of  evil  evil  flourishes,  out  of  tyranny  tyranny  buds. 
Ran  the  land  with  Roman  slaughter,  multitudinous  agonies. 
Perish'd  many  a  maid  and  matron,  many  a  valorous  legionary. 
Fell  the  colony,  city  and  citadel,  London,  Verulam,  Camulodune. 


IN  QUANTITY. 

MILTON. 

Alcaics. 

C  MIOHTT-MOUTU'D  inventor  of  harmonies, 
O  skill'd  to  sing  of  Time  or  Eternity, 
God-gifted  organ-voice  of  England, 

Milton,  a  name  to  resound  for  ages , 
Whose  Titan  angels,  Gabriel,  Abdiel, 
Starr'd  from  Jehovah's  gorgeous  armories, 
Tower,  as  the  deep-domed  empyrean 

Rings  to  the  roar  of  an  angel  onset — 
Me  rather  all  that  bowery  loneliness, 
The  brooks  of  Eden  mazily  murmuring, 
And  bloom  profuse  and  cedar  arches 

Charm,  as  a  wanderer  out  iu  ocean, 
Where  some  refulgent  sunset  of  India 
Streams  o'er  a  rich  ambrosial  ocean  isle, 
And  crimson-hued  the  stately  palmwoods 
Whisper  in  odorous  heights  of  even. 


Hendecasyllabics. 

O  TOU  chorus  of  indolent  reviewers, 
Irresponsible,  indolent  reviewers, 
Look,  I  come  to  the  test,  a  tiny  poem 
All  composed  in  a  metre  of  Catullus, 
All  in  quantity,  careful  of  my  motion, 
Like  the  skater  on  ice  that  hardly  bears  him, 
Lest  I  fall  Unawares  before  the  people, 
Waking  laughter  in  indolent  reviewers. 
Should  I  flounder  awhile  without  a  tumble 
Thro'  this  metriflcation  of  Catullus, 
They  should  speak  to  me  not  without  a  welcome, 
All  that  chorus  of  indolent  reviewers. 
Hard,  hard,  hard  is  it,  only  not  to  tumble, 
So  fantastical  is  the  dainty  metre. 
Wherefore  slight  me  not  wholly,  nor  believe  me 
Too  presumptuous,  indolent  reviewers. 
O  blatant  Magazines,  regard  me  rather— 
Since  I  blush  to  belaud  myself  a  moment — 
As  some  rare  little  rose,  a  piece  of  inmost 
Horticultural  art,  or  half  coquette-like 
Maiden,  not  to  be  greeted  unbenignly. 


SPECIMEN  OF  A  TRANSLATION  OF  THE  ILIAD. 


SPECIMEN  OF  A  TRANSLATION  OF 
THE  ILIAD  IN  BLANK  VERSE. 

So  Hector  said,  and  sea-like  roard  his  host ; 
Then,  loosed  their  sweating  horses  from  the  yoke 
And  each  beside  his  chariot  bound  his  own; 
And  oxen  from  the  city,  and  goodly  sheep 
In  haste  they  drove,  and  honey-hearted  wine 
And  bread  from  out  the  houses  brought,  and  heap'd 
Their  firewood,  and  the  winds  from  off  the  plain 
Roll'd  the  rich  vapor  far  into  the  heaven. 
And  these  all  night  upon  the  *bridge  of  war 
Sat  glorying;  many  a  fire  before  them  blazed: 
As  when  in  heaven  the  stars  about  the  moon 


Look  beautiful,  when  all  the  winds  are  laid. 
And  every  height  comes  out,  and  jutting  peak 
And  valley,  and  the  immeasurable  heavens 
Break  open  to  their  highest,  and  all  the  stars 
Shine,  and  the  Shepherd  gladdens  in  his  heart: 
So  many  a  fire  between  the  ships  and  stream 
Of  Xanthus  blazed  before  the  towers  of  Troy, 
A  thousand  on  the  plain ;  and  close  by  each 
Sat  fifty  in  the  blaze  of  burning  fire ; 
And  champing  golden  grain,  the  horses  stood 
Hard  by  their  chariots,  waiting  for  the  dawn.* 

Iliad,  viii.  542-561. 


nore  literally,— 

And  eating  hoary  grain  and  pulse,  the  steeds 
Stood  by  their  cars,  waiting  the  throatd  morn. 


226  THE  NORTHERN  FARMER. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


THE  NORTHERN  FARMER. 

NEW   STYLE. 


DOSK'T  them  'ear  my  'erse's  legs,  as  they  canters  awaiiy  ? 
Proputty,  proputty,  proputty  —  that  's  what  I  'ears  'em  saay. 
Proputty,  proputty,  proputty  —  Sam,  thou  's  an  ass  for  thy 
Theer  'e  moor  sense  i'  one  o'  'is  legs  nor  in  all  thy  braains. 

II. 

Woa  —  theer  's  a  craw  to  pluck  wi'  tha,  Sam :  yon  's  parson's  'ousc  — 
Dosn't  thou  knaw  that  a  man  mun  be  eiither  a  man  or  a  mouse  ? 
Time  to  think  on  it  then ;  for  thou  '11  be  twenty  to  weeak.* 
Proputty,  proputty  —  woa  then  woii  —  let  ma  'ear  mysen  speak. 

III. 

Me  an'  thy  muther,  Sammy,  'as  beiin  a-talkin'  o'  thee ; 
Thou  's  been  talkin'  to  muther,  an'  she  bean  a  tellin'  it  me. 
Thou  '11  not  marry  for  munny  —  thou  's  sweet  upo'  parson's  lass  — 
Noa  —  thou  '11  marry  for  luw  — an'  we  boiith  on  us  thinks  tha  an  asa. 

IV. 

Seeii'd  her  todaay  goa  by  —  Saiiint's-daay —  thay  was  ringing  the  bells. 
She  's  a  beauty  thou  thinks  — an'  soa  is  scoors  o'  gells, 
Them  as  'as  mnnny  an'  all— wot 's  a  beauty?— the  flower  as  blaws. 
But  proputty,  proputty  sticks,  an'  proputty,  proputty  graws. 

V. 

Do'ant  be  stunt ;t  taake  time:  I  knaws  what  maiikes  tha  sa  mad. 
Warn't  I  craazed  fur  the  lasses  mysen  when  I  wur  a  lad  ? 
But  I  knaw'd  a  Quaiiker  feller  as  often  'as  towd  ma  this: 
"Doant  thou  marry  for  munny,  but  goii  wheer  munny  is !" 

VI. 

An'  I  went  wheer  munny  war:  an'  thy  mother  coom  to  'and, 

Wi'  lots  o'  munny  laaid  by,  an'  a  nicetish  bit  o'  land. 

Maaybe  she  warn't  a  beauty:  —I  niver  giv  it  a  thowt — 

But  warn't  she  as  good  to  cuddle  an'  kiss  as  a  lass  as  'ant  no\f  t  ? 

VII. 

Parson's  lass  'ant  nowt,  an'  she  weant  'a  nowt  when  'e  's  dead, 
Mnn  be  a  guvness,  lad,  or  summut,  and  addlet  her  bread: 
Why?  fur  'e  's  nobbut  a  curate,  an'  weant  nivir  git  naw  'igher; 
An'  'e  maade  the  bed  as  'e  ligs  on  afoor  'e  coom'd  to  the  shire. 

vm. 

And  thin  'e  coom'd  to  the  parish  wi'  lots  o'  'Varsity  debt, 
Stock  to  his  taail  they  did,  an'  'e  'ant  got  shut  on  'em  yet. 
An'  'e  ligs  on  'is  back  i'  the  grip,  wi'  norm  to  lend  'im  a  shove, 
Woorse  nor  a  far-welter'd§  yowe :  fur,  Sammy,  'e  married  fur  luvr. 

IX. 

Lnw  ?  what 's  luw  ?  thou  can  luw  thy  lass  an'  'er  munny  too, 
Maakin'  'em  goii  togither  as  they  've  good  right  to  do. 
Conld'n  I  luw  thy  muther  by  cause  o'  'er  munny  laaid  by? 
Xauy  — fur  I  luw'd  'er  a  vast  sight  moor  fur  it:  reason  why. 

t  Obstinate.  t  Earn.  j  Or  fow-weflered— said  of  a  sheep  lying  on  ita  back  in  the  (u 


THE  VICTIM. 


Ay,  an'  thy  muther  says  thou  wants  to  marry  the  lass, 
Cooms  of  a  gentleman  hnrn :  an'  we  boath  on  us  thinks  tha  an  ass. 
WoU  then,  proputty,  wiltha?  — an  ass  as  near  as  mays  iiowt — * 
Woii  then,  wiltha?  dangtha!  — the  bees  is  as  fell  as  owt.t 

XI. 

Break  me  a  bit  o'  the  esh  for  his  'ead,  lad,  out  o'  the  fence ! 
Gentleman  burn !  what 's  gentleman  burn  ?  is  it  shillius  an'  pence  T 
Proputty,  proputty  's  ivrything  'ere,  an',  Sammy,  I  'm  blest 
If  it  is  n't  the  salime  oop  yonder,  fur  them  as  'as  it  's  the  best. 

XII. 

Tis'n  them  as  'as  munny  as  breaks  into  'ouses  an'  steals, 
Them  as  'as  coiits  to  their  backs  an'  tai'tkes  their  regular  meals. 
Noii,  but  it 's  them  as  niver  knaws  wheer  a  meal  's  to  be  'ad. 
Taiike  my  word  for  it,  Sammy,  the  poor  in  a  loomp  is  bad. 

XIII. 

Them  or  thir  feythers,  tha  sees,  mun  'a  bean  a  laiizy  lot, 
Fur  work  mun  'a  gone  to  the  gittin'  whiniver  munny  was  got. 
Feyther  'ad  ammost  nowt ;  leastwaays  'is  munny  was  'id. 
But  '&  tued  an'  moil'd  'issen  dead,  an  'e  died  a  good  un,  'e  did. 

XIV. 

Look  thou  theer  wheer  Wrigglesby  beck  comes  out  by  the  'ill ! 
Feyther  run  up  to  the  farm,  an'  I  runs  up  to  the  mill ; 
An'  I  '11  run  up  to  the  brig,  an'  that  thou  '11  live  to  see ; 
And  if  thou  marries  a  good  nn,  I  '11  leave  the  land  to  thee. 

XV. 

Thim  's  my  noations,  Sammy,  wheerby  I  means  to  stick ; 
But  if  thou  marries  a  bad  un,  I  '11  leave  the  land  to  Dick.  — 
Coom  oop,  proputty,  proputty  —  that  's  what  I  'ears  'im  saiiy — 
Proputty,  proputty,  proputty — canter  an'  canter  awaay. 


THE  VICTIM. 

1. 

A  PLAGUE  upon  the  people  fell, 
A  famine  after  laid  them  low, 
Then  thorpe  and  byre  arose  in  fire, 

For  on  them  brake  the  sudden  foe; 
So  thick  they  died  the  people  cried 

"The  Gods  are  moved  against  the  land." 
The  Priest  in  horror  about  his  altar 
To  Thor  and  Odin  lifted  a  hand : 
"Help  us  from  famine 
And  plague  and  strife ! 
What  would  you  have  of  us  ? 
Human  life  ? 
Were  it  our  nearest, 
Were  it  our  dearest, 
(Answer,  O  answer) 
We  give  you  his  life." 

2. 

But  still  the  foeman  spoil'd  and  burn'd, 

And  cattle  died,  and  deer  in  wood, 
And  bird  in  air,  and  fishes  turn'd 

And  whiten'd  all  the  rolling  flood ; 
And  dead  men  lay  all  over  the  way, 

O*  down  in  a  furrow  scathed  with  flame: 
And  ever  and  aye  the  Priesthood  moan'd 
Till  at  last  it  seem'd  that  an  answer  came: 
"The  King  is  happy 
In  child  and  wife; 
Take  you  his  dearest, 
Give  us  a  life." 


3. 

The  Priest  went  out  by  heath  and  hill ; 

The  King  was  hunting  in  the  wild ; 
They  found  the  mother  sitting  still; 
She  cast  her  arms  about  the  child. 
;.The  child  was  only  eight  summers  old, 

His  beauty  still  with  his  years  increased. 
His  face  was  ruddy,  his  hair  was  gold, 
He  seem'd  a  victim  due  to  the  priest. 
The  priest  beheld  him, 
And  cried  with  joy, 
"The  Gods  have  auswer'd: 
We  give  them  the  boy." 

4. 

The  King  return'd  from  out  the  wild, 

He  bore  but  little  game  in  hand ; 
The  mother  said:  "They  have  taken  the  child 

To  spill  his  blood  and  heal  the  land: 
The  land  is  sick,  the  people  diseased, 

And  blight  and  famine  on  all  the  lea: 
The  holy  Gods,  they  must  be  appeased, 
So  I  pray  you  tell  the  truth  to  me. 
They  have  taken  our  son, 
They  will  have  his  life. 
Is  he  your  dearest? 
Or  I,  the  wife?" 


The  King  bent  low,  with  hand  on  brow, 
He  stay'd  his  arms  upon  his  knee: 

"O  wife,  what  use  to  answer  now? 
For  now  the  Priest  has  judged  for  me.'' 


'  Makes  nothing. 


t  The  flies  are  as  fie 


i  anything. 


228 


WAGES.— THE  HIGHER  PANTHEISM.— LUCRETIUS. 


The  King  was  shaken  with  holy  fear ; 

"The  Gods,"  he  said,  "would  have  chosen  well ; 
Yet  both  are  near,  and  both  are  dear, 
And  which  the  dearest  I  cannot  tell !" 
But  the  Priest  was  happy, 
His  victim  won : 
"We  have  his  dearest, 
His  only  son !" 

6. 

The  rites  prepared,  the  victim  bared, 

The  knife  uprising  toward  the  blow, 
To  the  altar-stone  she  sprang  alone, 

"Me,  not  my  darling,  no!" 
He  caught  her  away  with  a  sudden  cry; 

Suddenly  from  him  brake  his  wife, 
And  shrieking  "/  am  his  dearest,  I  — 
/  am  his  dearest !"  rush'd  on  the  knife. 
And  the  Priest  was  happy, 
"O,  Father  Odin, 
We  give  you  a  life. 
Which  was  his  nearest? 
Who  was  his  dearest? 
The  Gods  have  answer'd; 
We  give  them  the  wife  !" 


WAGES. 

GLOEY  of  warrior,  glory  of  orator,  glory  of  song, 
Paid  with  a  voice  flying  by  to  be  lost  on  an  end- 
less sea — 
Glory  of  Virtue,  to  fight,  to  struggle,  to  right  the 

wrong — 
Nay,  but  she  aim'd  not  at  glory,  no  lover  of  glory 

she: 
Give  her  the  glory  of  going  on,  and  still  to  be. 

The  wages  of  sin  is  death :  if  the  wages  of  Virtue 

be  dust, 
Would  she  have  heart  to  endure  for  the  life  of  the 

worm  and  the  fly? 
She  desires  no  isles  of  the  blest,  no  quiet  seats  of 

the  just, 

To  rest  in  a  golden  grove,  or  to  bask  in  a  sum- 
mer sky: 
Give  her  the  wages  of  going  on,  and  not  to  die. 


THE  HIGHER  PANTHEISM. 

TIIE  sun,  the  moon,  the  stars,  the  seas,  the  hills  and 

the  plains  — 
Are  not  these,  O  Soul,  the  Vision  of  Him  who  reigns  ? 

Is  not  the  Vision  He  ?  tho'  He  be  not  that  which  He 

seems  ? 
Dreams  are  true  while  they  last,  and  do  we  not  live 

in  dreams  ? 

Earth,  these  solid  stars,  this  weight  of  body  and 

limb, 
Are  they  not  sign  and  symbol  of  thy  division  from 

Him? 

Dark  is  the  world  to  thee :   thyself  art  the  reason 

why; 
For  is  He  not  all  but  thou,  that  hast  power  to  feel 

"I  am  I!" 

Glory  about  thee,  without  thee :   and  thou  fulflllest 

thy  doom, 
Making  Him  broken  gleams,  and  a  stifled  splendor 

and  gloom. 


Speak  to  Him  thou  for  He  hears,  and  Spirit  with 

Spirit  can  meet  — 
Closer  is  He  than  breathing,  and  nearer  than  hands 

and  feet 

God  is  law,  say  the  wise,  O  Soul,  and  let  us  rejoice, 
For  if  He  thunder  by  law  the  thunder  is  yet  His 
voice. 

Law  is  God,  say  some :  no  God  at  all,  says  the  fool ; 
For  all  we  have  power  to  see  is  a  straight  staff  bent 
in  a  pool ; 

And  the  ear  of  man  cannot  hear,  and  the  eye  of  man 

cannot  see; 
But  if  we  could  see  and  hear,  this  Vision — were  it 

not  He  ? 


FLO-VVEE  in  the  crannied  wall, 
I  pluck  you  out  of  the  crannies ;  — 
Hold  you  here,  root  and  all,  in  my  hand, 
Little  flower — but  if  I  could  understand 
What  you  are,  root  and  all,  and  all  in  all, 
I  should  know  what  God  and  man  is. 


LUCRETIUS. 

LrciLiA,  wedded  to  Lucretius,  found 

Her  master  cold;  for  when  the  morning  flusn 

Of  passion  and  the  first  embrace  had  died 

Between  them,  tho'  he  loved  her  none  the  less, 

Yet  often  when  the  woman  heard  his  foot 

Return  from  pacings  in  the  field,  and  ran 

To  greet  him  with  a  kiss,  the  master  took 

Small  notice,  or  austerely,  for — his  mind 

Half  buried  in  some  weightier  argument, 

Or  fancy-borne  perhaps  upon  the  rise 

And  long  roll  of  the  Hexameter  —  he  past 

To  turn  and  ponder  those  three  hundred  scrolls 

Left  by  the  Teacher  whom  he  held  divine. 

She  brook'd  it  not;  but  wrathful,  petulant, 

Dreaming  some  rival,  sought  and  found  a  witch 

Who  brew'd  the  philter  which  had  power,  they  said, 

To  lead  an  errant  passion  home  again. 

And  this,  at  times,  she  mingled  with  his  drink, 

And  this  destroy'd  him ;  for  the  wicked  broth 

Confused  the  chemic  labor  of  the  blood, 

And  tickling  the  brute  brain  within  the  man's, 

Made  havoc  among  those  tender  cells,  and  check'd 

His  power  to  shape:  he  loath'd  himself ;  and  once 

After  a  tempest  woke  npon  a  morn 

That  mock'd  him  with  returning  calm,  and  cried.' 

"  Storm  in  the  night  1  for  thrice  I  heard  the  ram 
Rushing;  and  once  the  flash  of  a  thunderbolt  — 
Methought  I  never  saw  so  fierce  a  fork  — 
Struck  out  the  streaming  mountain-side,  and  show'd 
A  riotous  confluence  of  watercourses 
Blanching  and  billowing  in  a  hollow  of  it, 
Where  all  but  yester-eve  was  dusty-dry. 

"Storm,  and  what   dreamr,  ye  holy  Gods,  what 

dreams  1 

For  thrice  I  waken'd  after  dreams.    Perchanca 
We  do  but  recollect  the  dreams  that  come 
Just  ere  the  waking :  terrible !  for  it  seem'd 
A  void  was  made  in  Nature ;  all  her  bonds 
Crack'd ;  and  I  saw  the  flaring  atom-streams 
And  torrents  of  her  myriad  universe, 
Ruining  along  the  illimitable  inane, 
Fly  on  to  clash  together  again,  and  make 
Another  and  another  frame  of  things 


LUCRETIUS. 


229 


Forever :  that  was  mine,  my  dream,  I  knew  it 

Of  and  belonging  to  me,  as  the  dog 

With  inward  yelp  and  restless  forefoot  plies 

His  function  of  the  woodland:  but  the  nest! 

I  thought  that  all  the  blood  by  Sylla  shed 

Came  driving  raiulike  down  again  on  earth, 

And  where  it  .dashed  the  reddening  meadow,  sprang 

No  dragon  warriors  from  Cadmean  teeth, 

For  these  I  thought  my  dream  would  show  to  me, 

But  girls,  Hetairai,  curious  in  their  art, 

Hired  animalisms,  vile  as  those  that  made 

The  mulberry-faced  Dictator's  orgies  worse 

Than  aught  they  fable  of  the  quiet  Gods. 

And  hands  they  mixt,  and  yell'd  and  round  me  drove 

In  narrowing  circles  till  I  yell'd  again 

Half  suffocated,  and  sprang  up,  and  saw — 

Was  it  the  first  beam  of  my  latest  day  ? 

"Then,  then,  from   utter   gloom   stood   out  the 

breasts, 

The  breasts  of  Helen,  and  hoveringly  a  sword 
Now  over  and  now  under,  now  direct, 
Pointed  itself  to  pierce,  but  sank  down  shamed 
At  all  that  beauty;  and  as  I  stared,  a  fire, 
The  fire  that  left  a  roofless  Ilion, 
Shot  out  of  them,  and  scorch'd  me  that  I  woke. 

"Is  this  thy  vengeance,  holy  Venus,  thine, 
Because  I  would  not  one  of  thine  own  doves, 
Not  ev'n  a  rose,  were  offer'd  to  thee  J  thine, 
Forgetful  how  my  rich  prooernion  makes 
Thy  glory  fly  along  the  Italian  field, 
111  lays  that  will  outlast  thy  Deity? 

"Deity?  nay,  thy  worshipper?.    My  tongue 
Trips,  or  I  speak  profanely.    Which  of  these 
Angers  thee  most,  or  angers  thee  at  all? 
Not  if  thou  be'st  of  those  who  far  aloof 
From  envy,  hate  and  pity,  and  spite  and  scorn, 
Live  the  great  life  which  all  our  greatest  fain 
Would  follow,  centred  in  eternal  calm. 

"Nay,  if  thon  canst,  O  Goddess,  like  ourselves 
Touch,  and  be  touched,  then  would  I  cry  to  thee 
To  kiss  thy  Mavors,  roll  thy  tender  arms 
Round  him,  and  keep  him  from  the  lust  of  blood 
That  makes  a  steaming  slaughter-house  of  Eome. 

"  Ay,  but  I  meant  not  thee ;  I  meant  not  her, 
Whom  all  the  pines  of  Ida  shook  to  eee 
Slide  from  that  quiet  heaven  of  hers,  and  tempt 
The  Trojan,  while  his  neat-herds  were  abroad; 
Nor  her  that  o'er  her  wounded  hunter  wept 
Her  Deity  false  in  human-amorous  tears ; 
Nor  whom  her  beardless  apple-arbiter 
Decided  fairest.    Rather,  O  ye  Gods, 
Poet-like,  as  the  great  Sicilian  called 
Calliope  to  grace  his  golden  verse  — 
Ay,  and  this  Kypris  also  —  did  I  take 
That  popular  name  of  thine  to  shadow  forth 
The  all-generating  powers  and  genial  heat 
Of  Nature,  when  she  strikes  through  the  thick  blood 
Of  cattle,  and  light  is  large  and  lambs  are  glad 
Nosing  the  mother's  udder,  and  the  bird 
Makes  his  heart  voice  amid  the  blaze  of  flowers 
Which  things  appear  the  work  of  mighty  Gods. 

"The  Gods!  and  if  I  go  my  work  is  left 
TTnfinish'd — if  I  go.    The  Gods,  who  haunt 
The  lucid  interspace  of  world  and  world, 
Where  never  creeps  a  cloud,  or  moves  a  wind, 
Nor  ever  falls  the  least  white  star  of  snow, 
Nor  ever  lowest  roll  of  thunder  moans, 
Nor  sound  of  human  sorrow  mounts  to  mar 
Their  sacred  everlasting  calm !  and  such, 
Not  all  so  fine,  nor  so  divine  a  calm, 
Not  such,  nor  all  unlike  it,  man  may  pain 
Letting  his  own  life  go.    The  Gods,  the  Gods  I 


If  all  be  atoms,  how  then  should  the  Gods 

Being  atomic  not  be  dissoluble, 

Not  follow  the  great  law?    My  master  held 

That  Gods  there  are,  for  all  men  so  believe. 

I  press'd  my  footsteps  into  his,  and  meant 

Surely  to  lead  my  Memmius  in  a  train 

Of  flowery  clauses  onward  to  the  proof 

That  Gods  there   are,  and   deathless.     Meant  ?     I 

meant  ? 

I  have  forgotten  what  I  meant:  my  mind 
Stumbles,  and  all  my  faculties  are  lamed. 

"Look  where  another  of  our  Gods,  the  Sun, 
Apollo,  Delius,  or  of  older  use 
All-seeing  Hyperion — what  you  will — 
Has  mounted  yonder ;  since  he  never  sware, 
Except  his  wrath  were  wreak'd  on  wretched  man, 
That  he  would  only  shine  among  the  dead 
Hereafter ;  tales !  for  never  yet  on  earth 
Could  dead  flesh  creep,  or  bits  of  roasting  ox 
Moan  round  the  spit  —  nor  knows  he  what  he  sees ; 
King  of  the  East  altho'  he  seem,  and  girt 
With  song  and  flame  and  fragrance,  slowly  lifts 
His  golden  feet  on  those  empurpled  stairs 
That  climb  into  the  windy  halls  of  heaven « 
And  here  he  glances  on  an  eye  new-born, 
And  gets  for  greeting  but  a  wail  of  pain  ; 
And  here  he  stays  upon  a  freezing  orb 
That  fain  would  gaze  upon  him  to  the  last: 
And  here  upon  a  yellow  eyelid  fall'n 
And  closed  by  those  who  mourn  a  friend  in  vain, 
Not  thankful  that  his  troubles  are  no  more. 
And  me,  altho'  his  fire  is  on  my  face 
Blinding,  he  sees  not,  nor  at  all  can  tell 
Whether  I  mean  this  day  to  end  myself, 
Or  lend  an  ear  to  Plato  where  he  says, 
That  men  like  soldiers  may  not  quit  the  post 
Allotted  by  the  Gods:  but  he  that  holds 
The  Gods  are  careless,  wherefore  need  he  care 
Greatly  for  them,  nor  rather  plunge  at  once, 
Being  troubled,  wholly  out  of  sight,  and  sink 
Past  earthquake  —  ay,  and  gout  and  stone,  that  braak 
Body  toward  death,  and  palsy,  death-in-life, 
And  wretched  age  —  and  worst  disease  of  all, 
Those  prodigies  of  myriad  nakednesses, 
And  twisted  shapes  of  lust,  unspeakable, 
Abominable,  strangers  at  my  hearth 
Not  welcome,  harpies  miring  every  dish, 
The  phantom  husks  of  something  foully  done, 
And  fleeting  through  the  boundless  universe, 
And  blasting  the  long  quiet  of  my  breast 
With  animal  heat  and  dire  insanity. 

"How  should  the  mind,  except  it  loved  them,  clasp 
These  idols  to  herself?  or  do  they  fly 
Now  thinner,  arid  now  thicker,  like  the  flakes 
In  a  fall  of  snow,  and  so  press  in,  perforce 
Of  multitude,  as  crowds  that  in  an  hour 
Of  civic  tumult  jam  the  doors,  and  bear 
The  keepers  down,  and  throng,  their  rags  and  they, 
The  basest,  far  into  that  council-hall 
Where  sit  the  best  and  stateliest  of  the  land  ? 

"  Can  I  not  fling  this  horror  off  me  again, 
Seeing  with  how  great  ease  Nature  can  smile, 
Balmier  and  nobler  from  her  bath  of  storm, 
At  random  ravage?  and  how  easily 
The  mountain  there  has  cast  his  cloudy  slough, 
Now  towering  o'er  him  in  serenest  air, 
A  mountain  o'er  a  mountain,  ay,  and  within 
All  hollow  as  the  hopes  and  fears  of  men. 

"But  who  was  he,  that  in  the  garden  snared 
Picus  and  Faunus,  rustic  Gods?  a  tale 
To  langh  at— more  to  laugh  at  in  myself— 
For  look  !  what  is  it  ?  there  ?  yon  arbutus 
Totters :  a  noiseless  riot  underneath 
Strikes  through  the  wood,  sets  all  the  tops  quiver- 
ing— 


230 


THE  GOLDEN  SUPPER. 


The  mountain  quickens  into  Nymph  and  Faun; 

And  here  an  Oread  — how  the  sun  delights 

To  glance  and  shift  about  her  slippery  sides, 

And  rosy  knees  and  supple  roundeduess, 

And  budded  bosom-peaks  —  who  this  way  runs 

Before  the  rest  — A  satyr,  a  satyr,  see  — 

Follows;  but  him  I  proved  impossible; 

Twy-natured  is  no  nature;  yet  he  draws 

Nearer  and  nearer,  and  I  scan  him  now 

Beastlier  than  any  phantom  ot  his  kind 

That  ever  butted  his  rough  brother-brute 

For  lust  or  lusty  blood  or  provender : 

I  hate,  abhor,  spit,  sicken  at  him ;  and  she 

Loathes  him  as  well;  such  a  precipitate  heel, 

Fledged  as  it  were  with  Mercury's  ankle-wing, 

Whirls  her  to  me:  but  will  she  fling  herself, 

Shameless  upon  me  ?    Catch  her,  goatfoot :  nay, 

Hide,  hide  them,  million-myrtled  wilderness, 

And  cavern-shadowing  laurels,  hide !  do  I  wish  — 

What?  —  that  the  bush  were  leafless?  or  to  whelm 

All  of  them  in  one  massacre  ?    O  ye  Gods, 

I  know  you  careless,  yet,  behold,  to  you 

From  childly  wont  and  ancient  use  I  call  — 

I  thought  I  lived  securely  as  yourselves  — 

No  lewdness,  narrowing  envy,  monkey-spite, 

No  madness  of  ambition,  avarice,  none  : 

No  larger  feast  that  under  plane  or  pine 

With  neighbors  laid  along  the  grass,  to  take 

Only  such  cups  as  left  us  friendly  warm, 

Affirming  each  his  own  philosophy  — 

Nothing  to  mar  the  sober  majesties 

Of  settled,  sweet,  Epicurean  life. 

But  now  it  seems  some  unseen  monster  lays 

His  vast  and  filthy  hands  upon  my  will, 

Wrenching  it  backward  into  his ;  and  spoils 

My  bliss  in  being;  and  it  was  not  great; 

For  save  when  shutting  reasons  np  in  rhythm, 

Or  Heliconian  honey  in  living  words, 

To  make  a  truth  less  harsh,  I  often  grew 

Tired  of  so  much  within  our  little  life, 

Or  of  so  little  in  our  little  life  — 

Poor  little  life  that  toddles  half  an  hour 

Crown'd  with  a  flower  or  two,  and  there  an  end  — 

And  since  the  nobler  pleasure  seems  to  fade, 

Why  should  I,  beastlike  as  I  find  myself, 

Not  manlike  end  myself?  —  our  privilege  — 

What  beast  has  heart  to  do  it?    And  what  man, 

What  Eoman  would  be  dragged  in  triumph  thus  ? 

Not  I ;  not  he,  who  bears  one  name  with  her, 

Whose  death-blow  struck  the  dateless  doom  of  kings, 

When  brooking  not  the  Tarquin  in  her  veins, 

She  made  her  blood  in  sight  of  Collatine 

And  all  his  peers,  flushing  the  guiltless  air, 

Spout  from  the  maiden  fountain  in  her  heart. 

And  from  it  sprang  the  Commonwealth,  which  breaks 

As  I  am  breaking  now ! 

"And  therefore  now 

Let  her,  that  is  the  womb  and  tomb  of  all, 
Great  Nature,  take,  and  lorcing  far  apart 
Those  blind  beginnings  that  have  made  me  man, 
Dash  them  anew  together  at  her  will 
Through  all  her  cycles  —  into  man  once  more 
Or  beast  or  bird  or  fish,  or  opulent  flower  — 
But  till  this  cosmic  order  everywhere 
Shatter'd  into  one  earthquake  in  one  day 
Cracks  all  to  pieces,  —  and  that  hour  perhaps 
Is  not  so  far  when  momentary  man 
Shall  seem  no  more  a  something  to  himself, 
But  he,  his  hopes  and  hates,  his  homes  and  fanes, 
And  even  his  bones  long  laid  within  the  grave, 
The  very  sides  of  the  grave  itself  shall  pass, 
Vanishing,  atom  and  void,  atom  and  void, 
Into  the  unseen  forever, — till  that  hour, 
My  golden  work  in  which  I  told  a  truth 
That  stays  the  rolling  Ixionian  wheel, 
And  numbs  the  Fury's  ringlet-suake,  and  plucks 
The  mortal  soul  from  out  immortal  hell, 


Shall  stand :  ay,  surely :  then  it  fails  at  last, 

And  perishes  as  I  must;  for  O  Thou, 

Passionless  nride,  divine  Tranquillity, 

Yearned  after  by  the  -wisest  of  the  wise, 

Who  fail  to  find  thee,  being  as  thou  art 

Without  one  pleasure  and  without  one  pain, 

Howbeit  I  know  thon  surely  must  be  mine 

Or  soon  or  late,  yet  out  of  season,  thus 

I  woo  thee  roughly,  for  thou  carest  not 

How  roughly  men  may  woo  thee  so  they  win  — 

Thus  — thus:  the  soul  flies  out  and  dies  in  the  air." 

With  that  he  drove  the  knife  into  his  side : 
She  heard  him  raging,  heard  him  fall:  ran  in, 
Beat  breast,  tore  hair,  cried  out  upon  herself 
As  having  failed  In  duty  to  him,  shriek'd 
That  she  but  meant  to  win  him  back,  fell  on  him, 
Clasp'd,  kis^'d  him,  wail'd:  he  answer'd,  "Care  not 

thou 
What  matters?    All  is  over:  Fare  thee  well!" 


THE  GOLDEN  SUPPER. 

[This  poem  is  founded  upon  a  story  in  Boccaccio. 

A  young  lover,  Julian,  whose  cousin  and  foster-sister,  Camilla,  has 
been  wedded  to  his  friend  and  rival,  Lionel,  endeavors  to  narrate  the 
story  of  his  own  love  for  her,  and  the  strange  sequel  of  it.  He  speaks 
of  having  been  haunted  in  delirium  by  visions  and  the  sound  of  bells, 
sometimes  tolling  for  a  funeral,  and  at  last  ringing  for  a  marriage ;  but 
he  breaks  away,  overcome,  as  he  approaches  the  Event,  and  a  witness 
to  it  completes  the  tale.] 

***** 

HE  flies  the  event:  he  leaves  the  event  to  me: 
Poor  Julian  —  how  he  rush'd  away;  the  bells, 
Those  marriage-bells,  echoing  in  ear  and  heart  — 
But  cast  a  parting  glance  at  me,  you  saw, 
As  who  should  say  "continue."    Well,  he  had 
One  golden  hour — of  triumph  shall  I  say? 
Solace  at  least — before  he  left  his  home. 

Would  you  had  seen  him  in  that  hour  of  his ! 
He  moved  thro'  all  of  it  majestically  — 
Restrain'd  himself  quite  to  the  close — but  now  — 

Whether  they  were  his  lady's  marriage-bells, 
Or  prophets  of  them  in  his  fantasy, 
I  never  ask'd:  but  Lionel  and  the  girl 
Were  wedded,  and  our  Julian  came  again 
Back  to  his  mother's  house  among  the  pines. 
But  there,  their  gloom,  the  Mountains  and  the  Bay, 
The  whole  land  weigh'd  him  down  as  ^Etua  dees 
The  Giant  of  Mythology :  he  would  go, 
Would  leave  the  laud  forever,  and  had  gone 
Surely,  but  for  a  whisper  "Go  not  yet," 
Some  warning,  and  divinely  as  it  seem'd 
By  that  which  follow'd  —  but  of  this  I  deem 
As  of  the  visions  that  he  told  — the  event 
Glanced  back  upon  them  in  his  after  life, 
And  partly  made  them  —  tho'  he  knew  it  not. 

And  thus  he  etay'd  and  would  not  look  at  her  — 
No,  not  for  months :  but,  when  the  eleventh  moon 
After  their  marriage  lit  the  lover's  Bay, 
Heard  yet  once  more  the  tolling  bell,  and  said, 
Would  you  could  toll  me  out  of  life,  but  found — 
All  softly  as  his  mother  broke  it  to  him  — 
A  crueller  reason  than  a  crazy  ear, 
For  that  low  knell  tolling  his  lady  dead  — 
Dead  — and  had  lain  three  days  without  a  puise; 
All  that  look'd  on  her  had  pronounced  her  dead. 
And  so  they  bore  her  (for  in  Julian's  land 
They  never  nail  a  dumb  head  up  in  elm), 
Bore  her  free-faced  to  the  free  airs  of  heaven, 
And  laid  her  in  the  vault  of  her  own  kin. 

What  did  he  then  ?  not  die :  he  is  here  and  hale  — 
Not  plunge  headforemost  from  the  mountain  there, 


THE  GOLDEN  SUPPER. 


231 


And  leave  the  name  of  Lover's  Leap :  not  he : 
He  knew  the  meaning  of  the  whisper  now, 
Thought  that  he  knew  it    "This,  I  etay'd  for  this; 

0  love,  I  have  not  seen  you  for  so  long. 
Now,  now,  will  I  go  down  into  the  grave, 

1  will  be  all  alone  with  all  I  love, 

And  kiss  her  on  the  lips.    She  is  his  no  more: 
The  dead  returns  to  me,  and  I  go  down 
To  kiss  the  dead." 

The  fancy  stirr'd  him  so 

He  rose  and  went,  and  entering  the  dim  vault, 
And,  making  there  a  sudden  light,  beheld 
All  round  about  him  that  which  all  will  be. 
The  light  was  but  a  flash,  and  went  again. 
Then  at  the  far  end  of  the  vault  he  saw 
His  lady  with  the  moonlight  on  her  face; 
Her  breast  as  in  a  shadow-prison,  bars 
Of  black  and  bands  of  silver,  which  the  moon 
Struck  from  an  open  grating  overhead 
High  in  the  wall,  and  all  the  rest  of  her 
Drown'd  in  the  gloom  and  horror  of  the  vault. 

"It  was  my  wish,"  he  said,  "to  pass,  to  Bleep, 
To  rest,  to  be  with  her  — till  the  great  day 
Peal'd  on  us  with  that  music  which  rights  all, 
And  raised  us  hand  in  hand."    And  kneeling  there 
Down  in  the  dreadful  dust  that  once  was  man, 
Dust,  as  he  said,  that  once  was  loving  hearts, 
Hearts  that  had  beat  with  such  a  love  as  mine  — 
Not  such  as  mine,  no,  nor  for  such  as  her  — 
He  softly  put  his  arm  about  her  neck 
And  kiss'd  her  more  than  once,  till  helpless  death 
And  silence  made  him  bold— nay,  but  I  wrong  him, 
He  reverenced  his  dear  lady  even  in  death ; 
But,  placing  his  true  hand  upon  her  heart, 
"O,  you  warm  heart,"  he  moaned,  "not  even  death 
Can  chill  you  all  at  once:"  then  starting,  thought 
His  dreams  had  come  again.    "Do  I  wake  or  sleep? 
Or  am  I  made  immortal,  or  my  love 
Mortal  once  more?"    It  beat  — the  heart— it  beat: 
Faint  — but  it  beat:  at  which  his  own  began 
To  pulse  with  such  a  vehemence  that  it  drown'd 
The  feebler  motion  nnderneath  his  hand. 
But  when  at  last  his  doubts  were  satisfied, 
He  raised  her  softly  from  the  sepulchre, 
And,  wrapping  her  all  over  with  the  cloak 
He  came  iu,  and  now  striding  fast,  and  now 
Sitting  awhile  to  rest,  bnt  evermore 
Holding  his  golden  burden  in  his  arms, 
So  bore  her  thro'  the  solitary  land 
Back  to  the  mother's  house  where  she  was  born. 

There  the  good  mother's  kindly  ministering, 
With  half  a  night's  appliances,  recall'd 
Her  fluttering  life:  she  raised  an  eye  that  ask'd 
"Where?"  till  the  things  familiar  to  her  youth 
Had  made  a  silent  answer:  then  she  spoke, 
"Here!  and  how  came  I  here?"  and  learning  it 
(They  told  her  somewhat  rashly  as  I  think), 
At  once  began  to  wander  and  to  wail, 
"  Ay,  but  you  know  that  yon  must  give  me  back : 
Send !  bid  him  come ;"  bnt  Lionel  was  away, 
Stnng  by  his  loss  had  vanish'd,  none  knew  where. 
"He  casts  me  out,"  she  wept,  "and  goes"  —  a  wail 
That  seeming  something,  yet  was  nothing,  born 
Not  from  believing  mind,  but  shatter'd  nerve, 
Yet  haunting  Julian,  as  her  own  reproof 
At  some  precipitance  in  her  burial. 
Then,  when  her  own  true  spirit  had  return'd, 
"O  yes,  and  you,"  she  said,  "and  none  but  yon. 
For  you  have  given  me  life  and  love  again, 
And  none  but  yon  yourself  shall  tell  him  of  it, 
And  yon  shall  give  me  back  when  he  returns." 
"Stay  then  a  little,"  answer'd  Julian,  "here, 
And  keep  yourself,  none  knowing,  to  yourself: 
And  I  will  do  yonr  will.    I  may  not  stay, 
No,  not  an  hour ;  bnt  send  me  notice  of  him 


When  he  returns,  and  then  will  I  return, 
And  I  will  make  a  solemn  offering  of  you 
To  him  you  love."    And  faintly  she  replied, 
And  I  will  do  your  will,  and  none  shall  know." 

Not  know?  with  such  a  secret  to  be  known. 
But  all  their  house  was  old  and  loved  them  both, 
And  all  the  house  had  known  the  loves  of  both  • 
Had  died  almost  to  serve  them  any  way, 
And  all  the  laud  was  waste  and  solitary; 
And  then  he  rode  away;  but  after  this, 
An  hour  or  two,  Camilla's  travail  came 
Upon  her,  and  that  day  a  boy  was  born, 
Heir  of  bis  face  and  land,  to  Lionel. 

And  thus  our  lonely  lover  rode^way, 
And  pausing  at  a  hostel  in  a  marsh, 
There  fever  seized  upon  him :  myself  was  then 
Travelling  that  land,  and  meant  to  rest  an  hour : 
And  sitting  down  to  such  a  base  repast, 
It  makes  me  angry  yet  to  speak  of  it  — 
I  heard  a  groaning  overhead,  and  climb'd 
The  moulder'd  stairs  (for  everything  was  vile), 
And  in  a  loft,  with  none  to  wait  on  him, 
Found,  as  it  seem'd,  a  skeleton  alone, 
Raving  of  dead  men's  dust  and  beating  hearts. 

A  dismal  hostel  in  a  dismal  land, 
A  flat  malarian  world  of  reed  and  rush ! 
Bnt  there  from  fever  and  my  care  of  him 
Sprang  up  a  friendship  that  may  help  us  yet 
For  while  we  roam'd  along  the  dreary  coast, 
And  waited  for  her  message,  piece  by  piece 
I  learnt  the  drearier  story  of  his  life ; 
And,  tho'  he  loved  and  honor'd  Lionel, 
Found^hat  the  sudden  wail  his  lady  made 
Dwelt  in  his  fancy :  did  he  know  her  worth, 
Her  beauty  even  ?  should  he  not  be  taught, 
Ev'n  by  the  price  that  others  set  upon  it, 
The  value  of  that  jewel  he  had  to  guard  ? 

Suddenly  came  her  notice  and  we  past, 
I  with  our  lover  to  his  native  Bay. 

This  love  is  of  the  brain,  the  mind,  the  soui ! 
That  makes  the  sequel  pure ;  tho'  some  of  us 
Beginning  at  the  sequel  know  no  more. 
Not  such  am  I :  and  yet  I  say,  the  bird 
That  will  not  hear  my  call,  however  sweet, 
But  if  my  neighbor  whistle  answers  him  — 
What  matter?  there  are  others  in  the  wood. 
Yet  when  I  saw  her  (and  I  thought  him  crazed, 
Tho'  not  with  such  a  craziness  as  needs 
A  cell  and  keeper),  those  dark  eyes  of  hers  — 
Oh  I  such  dark  eyes !  and  not  her  eyes  alone, 
But  all  from  these  two  where  she  touch 'd  on  earth, 
For  such  a  craziness  as  Julian's  seem'd 
No  less  than  one  divine  apology. 

So  sweetly  and  so  modestly  she  came 
To  greet  ns,  her  yonng  hero  in  her  arms ! 
"Kiss  him,"  she  said,    "You  gave  me  life  again. 
He,  but  for  yon,  had  never  seen  it  once. 
His  other  father  you  I    Kiss  him,  and  then 
Forgive  him,  if  Ms  name  be  Julian  too." 

Talk  of  lost  hopes  and  broken  heart !  his  own. 
Sent  such  a  flame  into  his  face,  I  knew 
Some  sudden  vivid  pleasure  hit  him  there. 

But  he  was  all  the  more  resolved  to  go,. 
And  sent  at  once  to  Lionel,  praying  him 
By  that  great  love  they  both  had  borne  the  dead, 
To  come  and  revel  for  one  hour  with  him 
Before  he  left  the  land  forevermore ; 
And  then  to  friends  — they  were  not  many  — who 
lived 


232 


THE  GOLDEN  SUPPER. 


Scatteringly  about  that  lonely  land  of  his, 
And  bade  them  to  a  banquet  of  farewells. 

And  Julian  made  a  solemn  feast :  I  never 
Sat  at  a  costlier ;  for  all  round  his  hall 
From  column  on  to  column,  as  in  a  wood, 
Not  such  as  here  —  an  equatorial  one, 
Great  garlands  swung  and  blossom'd ;  and  beneath, 
Heirlooms,  and  ancient  miracles  of  Art, 
Chalice  and  salver,  wines  that,  Heaven  knows  when, 
Had  suck'd  the  fire  of  some  forgotten  sun, 
And  kept  it  thro'  a  hundred  years  of  gloom, 
Yet  glowing  in  a  heart  of  ruby— cups 
Where  nymph  and  god  ran  ever  round  in  gold  — 
Others  of  glass  as  costly  — some  with  gems 
Movable  and  readable  at  will, 
And  trebling  all  Ine  rest  in  value — Ah  heavens! 
Why  need  I  tell  you  all?— suffice  to  say 
That  whatsoever  such  a  house  as  his, 
And  his  was  old,  has  in  it  rare  or  fair 
Was  brought  before  the  guest :  and  they,  the  guests, 
Wonder'd  at  some  strange  light  in  Julian's  eyes 
(I  told  you  that  he  had  his  golden  hour), 
And  such  a  feast,  ill-suited  as  it  seem'd 
To  such  a  time,  to  Lionel's  loss  and  his, 
And  that  resolved  self-exile  from  a  land 
He  never  would  revisit,  such  a  feast 
So  rich,  so  strange,  and  stranger  ev'n  than  rich, 
But  rich  as  for  the  nuptials  of  a  king. 

And  stranger  yet,  at  one  end  of  the  hall 
Two  great  funereal  curtains,  looping  down, 
Parted  a  little  ere  they  met  the  floor, 
About  a  picture  of  his  lady,  taken 
Some  years  before,  and  falling  hid  the  frame. 
And  just  above  the  parting  was  a  lamp : 
So  the  sweet  figure  folded  round  with  night 
Seem'd  stepping  out  of  darkness  with  a  smile. 

Well  then — our  solemn  feast  —  we  ate  and  drank, 
And  might — the  wines  being  of  such  nobleness  — 
Have  jested  also,  but  for  Julian's  eyes, 
And  something  weird  and  wild  about  it  all: 
What  was  it?  for  our  lover  seldom  spoke, 
Scarce  touch'd  the  meats;  but  ever  aud  anon 
A  priceless  goblet  with  a  priceless  wine 
Arising,  show'd  he  drank  beyond  his  use ; 
And  when  the  feast  was  near  an  end,  he  said : 

"There  is  a  custom  in  the  Orient,  friends — 
I  read  of  it  in  Persia — when  a  man 
Will  honor  those  who  feast  with  him,  he  brings 
And  shows  them  whatsoever  he  accounts 
Of  all  his  treasures  the  most  beautiful, 
Gold,  jewels,  arms,  whatever  it  nicy  be. 
This  custom—" 

Pausing  here  a  moment,  all 

The  guests  broke  in  upon  him  with  meeting  hands 
And  cries  about  the  banquet  —  "Beautiful I 
Who  could  desire  more  beauty  at  a  feast  ?  " 

The  lover  answer'd, "  There  is  more  than  one 
Here  sitting  who  desires  it.    Land  me  not 
Before  my  time,  but  hear  me  to  the  close. 
This  custom  steps  yet  further  when  the  guest 
Is  loved  and  honor'd  to  the  uttermost. 
For  after  he  has  shown  him  gems  or  gold, 
He  brings  and  sets  before  him  in  rich  guise 
That  which  is  thrice  as  beautiful  as  these, 
The  beauty  that  is  dearest  to  his  heart  — 
O  my  heart's  lord,  would  I  could  show  you,'  he  says, 
'  Ev'u  my  heart  too.'    And  I  propose  to-night 
To  show  you  what  is  dearest  to  my  heart, 
And  my  heart  too. 

"But  solve  me  first  a  doubt. 
I  knew  a  man,  nor  many  years  ago ; 


He  had  a  faithful  servant,  one  who  loved 

His  master  more  than  all  on  earth  beside. 

He  falling  sick,  aud  seeming  close  on  death, 

His  master  would  not  wait  until  he  died, 

But  bade  his  menials  bear  him  from  the  door, 

And  leave  him  in  the  public  way  to  die. 

I  knew  another,  not  so  long  ago, 

Who  found  the  dying  servant,  took  him  home, 

And  fed,  and  cherish'd  him,  and  saved  his  life. 

I  ask  you  now,  should  this  first  master  claim 

His  service,  whom  does  it  belong  to  ?  him 

Who  thrust  him  out,  or  him  who  saved  his  life  ? " 

This  question,  BO  flung  down  before  the  guests, 
And  balanced  either  way  by  each,  at  length 
When  some  were  doubtful  how  the  law  would  hold, 
\Vas  handed  over  by  consent  of  all 
To  one  who  had  not  spoken,  Lionel. 

Fair  speech  was  his,  and  delicate  of  phrase. 
And  he  beginning  languidly — his  loss 
Weigh'd  on  him  yet — but  warming  as  he  went, 
Glanced  at  the  point  of  law,  to  pass  it  by, 
Affirming  that  as  long  as  either  lived, 
By  all  the  laws  of  love  and  gratefulness, 
The  service  of  the  one  so  saved  was  due 
All  to  the  saver — adding,  with  a  smile, 
The  first  for  many  weeks  —  a  semi-smile 
As  at  a  strong  conclusion  —  "Body  and  soul, 
And  life  and  limbs,  all  his  to  work  his  will." 

Then  Julian  made  a  secret  sign  to  me 
To  bring  Camilla  down  before  them  all. 
And  crossing  her  own  picture  as  she  came, 
And  looking  as  much  lovelier  as  herself 
Is  lovelier  than  all  others — on  her  head 
A  diamond  circlet,  aud  from  under  this 
A  veil,  that  seem'd  no  more  than  gilded  air, 
Flying  by  each  fine  ear,  an  Eastern  gauze 
With  seeds  of  gold  —  so,  with  that  grace  of  hers, 
Slow-moving  as  a  wave  against  the  wind, 
That  flings  a  mist  behind  it  in  the  sun  — 
And  bearing  high  in  arms  the  mighty  babe, 
The  younger  Julian,  who  himself  was  crowu'd 
With  roses,  none  so  rosy  as  himself— 
And  over  all  her  babe  and  her  the  jewels 
Of  many  generations  of  his  house 
Sparkled  and  flashed,  for  he  had  decked  them  out 
As  for  a  solemn  sacrifice  of  love  — 
So  she  came  in:  —  I  am  long  in  telling  it. 
I  never  yet  beheld  a  thing  so  strange, 
Sad,  sweet,  and  strange  together — floated  in, — 
While  all  the  guests  iu  mute  amazement  rose, 
And  slowly  pacing  to  the  middle  hall, 
Before  the  board,  there  paused  and  stood,  her  breast 
Hard-heaving,  and  her  eyes  upon  her  feet, 
Not  daring  yet  to  glance  at  Lionel. 
But  him  she  carried,  him  nor  lights  nor  feast 
Dazed  or  amazed,  nor  eyes  of  men ;  who  cared 
Only  to  use  his  own,  and  staring  wide 
Aud  hungering  for  the  gilt  and  jewell'd  world 
About  him,  look'd,  as  he  is  like  to  prove, 
When  Jnliaii  goes,  the  lord  of  all  he  saw. 

"My  guests,"  said  Julian:  "you  are  honor'd  now 
Ev'n  to  the  uttermost :  in  her  behold 
Of  all  my  treasures  the  most  beautiful, 
Of  all  things  upon  earth  the  dearest  to  me." 
Then  waving  us  a  sign  to  seat  ourselves, 
Led  his  dear  lady  to  a  chair  of  state. 
Aud  I,  by  Lionel  sitting,  saw  his  face 
Fire,  and  dead  ashes  and  all  fire  again 
Thrice  in  a  second,  felt  him  tremble  too, 
And  heard  him  muttering,  "So  like,  so  like; 
She  never  had  a  sister.    I  knew  none. 
Some  cousin  of  his  and  hers  — O  God,  so  liko !" 
And  then  he  suddenly  asked  her  if  she  were. 
She  shook,  and  cast  her  eyes  down,  and  was  dumb. 


THE  GOLDEN  SUPPER. 


233 


And  then  some  other  question'd  if  she  came 
From  foreign  lands,  and  still  she  did  not  speak. 
Another,  if  the  boy  were  hers :  but  she 
To  all  their  queries  answer'd  not  a  word, 
Which  made  the  amazement  more,  till  one  of  them 
Said,  shuddering,  "  Her  spectre  !"    But  his  friend 
•  Replied,  in  half  a  whisper,  "  Not  at  least 
The  spectre  that  will  speak  if  spoken  to. 
Terrible  pity,  if  one  so  beautiful 
Prove,  as  I  almost  dread  to  flud  her,  dumb  1" 

But  Julian,  sitting  by  her,  answer'd  all : 
"  She  is  but  dumb,  because  in  her  you  see 
That  faithful  servant  whom  we  spoke  about, 
Obedient  to  her  second  master  now; 
Which  will  not  last.    I  have  her  here  to-night  a 

guest 

So  bound  to  me  by  common  love  and  loss  — 
What!  shall  I  bind  him  more?  in  his  behalf, 
Shall  I  exceed  the  Persian,  giving  him 
That  which  of  all  things  is  the  dearest  to  me, 
Not  only  showing?  and  he  himself  pronounced 
That  my  rich  gift  is  wholly  mine  to  give. 

"Now  all  be  dumb,  and  promise  all  of  you 
Not  to  break  in  on  what  I  say  by  word 
Or  whisper,  while  I  show  you  all  my  heart." 
And  then  began  the  story  of  his  love 
As  here  to-day,  but  not  so  wordily  — 
The  passionate  moment  would  not  suffer  that — 
Past  thro'  his  visions  to  the  burial;  thence 
Down  to  this  last  strange  hour  in  his  own  hall; 


And  then  rose  up,  and  with  him  all  his  guests 
Once  more  as  by  enchantment;  all  but  he, 
Lionel,  who  fain  had  risen,  but  fell  again, 
And  sat  as  if  in  chains  — to  whom  he  said: 

"Take  my  free  gift,  my  cousin,  for  your  wife; 
And  were  it  only  for  the  giver's  sake, 
And  tho'  she  seem  so  like  the  one  you  lost, 
Yet  cast  her  not  away  so  suddenly, 
Lest  there  be  none  left  here  to  bring  her  back: 
I  leave  this  land  forever."    Here  he  ceased. 

Then  taking  his  dear  lady  by  one  hand, 
And  bearing  on  one  arm  the  noble  babe, 
He  slowly  brought  them  both  to  Lionel. 
And  there  the  widower  husband  and  dead  wife 
Rushed  each  at  each  with  a  cry,  that  rather  seem'd 
For  some  new  death  than  for  a  life  renew'd; 
At  this  the  very  babe  began  to  wail; 
At  once  they  turned,  and  caught  and  brought  him  in 
To  their  charmed  circle,  and,  half  killing  him 
With  kisses,  round  him  closed  and  claspt  again. 
But  Lionel,  when  at  last  he  freed  himself 
From  wife  and  child,  and  lifted  up  a  face 
All  over  glowing  with  the  sun  of  life, 
And  love,  and  boundless  thanks  —  the  sight  of  this 
So  frighted  our  good  friend,  that  turning  to  me 
And  saying,  "It  is  over:  let  us  go"  — 
There  were  our  horses  ready  at  the  doors  — 
We  bade  them  no  farewell,  but  mounting  thes- 
He  past  forever  from  his  native  land ; 
And  I  with  him,  my  Julian,  back  to  mine. 


FARINGFORD— THB  RESIDENCE  OF  ALFRED  TENNYSON. 


231 


TIMBUCTOO. 


ADDITIONAL     POEMS. 


PRINTED   EXCLUSIVELY    IN.   THIS   EDITION. 


TDfBUCTOO.* 

"Deep  in  that  lion-haunted  inland  lies 
A  mystic  city,  goal  of  high  emprise."— CHAPMAX. 

I  STOOD  upon  the  Mountain  which  o'erlooka 

The  narrow  seas,  whose  rapid  interval 

Parts  Afric  from  green  Europe,  when  the  Sun 

Had  fall'n  below  th'  Atlantic,  and  above 

The  silent  heavens  were  blench'd  with  faery  light, 

Uncertain  whether  faery  light  or  cloud, 

Flowing  Southward,  and  the  chasms  of  deep,  deep 

blue 

Slumber'd  unfathomable,  and  the  stars 
Were  flooded  over  with  clear  glory  and  pale. 
I  gazed  upon  the  sheeny  coast  beyond, 
There  where  the  Giant  of  old  Time  infix'd 
The  limits  of  his  prowess,  pillars  high 
Long  time  erased  from  earth:  even  as  the  Sea 
When  weary  of  wild  inroad  buildeth  up 
Huge  mounds  whereby  to  stay  his  yeasty  waves. 
And  mnch  I  mused  on  legends  quaint  and  old 
Which  whilome  won  the  hearts  of  all  on  earth 
Toward  their  brightness,  ev'n  as  flame  draws  air; 
But  had  their  being  in  the  heart  of  man 
As  air  is  th'  life  of  flame :  and  thou  wert  then 
A  center'd  glory-circled  memory, 
Divinest  Atalantis,  whom  the  waves 
Have  buried  deep,  and  thon  of  later  name, 
Imperial  Eldorado,  roof'd  with  gold: 
Shadows  to  which,  despite  all  shocks  of  change, 
All  on-set  of  capricious  accident, 
Men  clung  with  yearning  hope  which  would  not  die. 
As  when  in  some  great  city  where  the  walls 
Shake,  and  the  streets  with  ghastly  faces  thronged, 
Do  utter  forth  a  subterranean  voice, 
Among  the  inner  columns  far  retired 
At  midnight,  in  the  lone  Acropolis, 
Before  the  awful  genius  of  the  place 
Kneels  the  pale  Priestess  in  deep  faith,  the  while 
Above  her  head  the  weak  lamp  dips  and  winks 
Unto  the  fearful  summoning  without: 
Nathless  she  ever  clasps  the  marble  knees, 
Bathes  the  cold  hand  with  tears,  and  gazeth  on 
Those  eyes  which  wear  no  light  but  that  wherewith 
Her  phantasy  informs  them. 

Where  are  ye, 

Thrones  of  the  Western  wave,  fair  Islands  green  ? 
Where  are  your  moonlight  halls,  your  cedarn  glocms, 
The  blossoming  abysses  of  your  hills  1 
Your  flowering  capes,  and  your  gold-sanded  bays 
Blown  round  with  happy  airs  of  odorous  winds  ? 
Where  are  the  infinite  ways,  which,  seraph-trod, 
Wound  through  your  great  Elysian  solitudes, 
Whose  lowest  deeps  were,  as  with  visible  love, 
Filled  with  Divine  effulgence,  circumfused, 
Flowing  between  the  clear  and  polished  stems, 
And  ever  circling  round  their  emerald  cones 
In  coronals  and  glories,  such  as  gird 
The  unfading  foreheads  of  the  Saints  in  Heaven  ? 
For  nothing  visible,  they  say,  had  birth 
In  that  blest  ground,  but  it  was  played  about 
With  its  peculiar  glory.    Then  I  raised 
My  voice  and  cried,  "Wide  Afric,  doth  thy  Sun 
Lighten,  thy  hills  enfold  a  city  as  fair 


»  A  Poem  which  obtained  the  Chancellor's  Medal  at  the  Cambridge 
Commencement,  MDCCCXX1X.  By  A.  TBNXYSON,  of  Trinity  Col- 
lege. 


As  those  which  starred  the  night  o'  the  elder  world  T 

Or  is  the  rumor  of  thy  Timbuctoo 

A  dream  as  frail  as  those  of  ancient  time  ?"' 

A  curve  of  whitening,  flashing,  ebbing  light ! 
A  rustling  of  white  wings !  the  bright  descent 
Of  a  young  Seraph !  and  he  stood  beside  me 
There  on  the  ridge,  and  looked  into  my  face 
With  his  unutterable,  shining  orbs, 
So  that  with  hasty  motion  I  did  veil 
My  vision  with  both  hands,  and  saw  before  me 
Such  colored  spots  as  dance  athwart  the  eyes 
Of  those  that  gaze  upon  the  noonday  Sun. 
Girt  with  a  zone  of  flashing  gold  beneath 
His  breast,  and  compassed  round  about  his  brow 
With  triple  arch  of  everchanging  bows, 
And  circled  with  the  glory  of  living  light 
And  alternation  of  all  hues,  he  stood. 

"  O  child  of  man,  why  muse  you  here  alone 
LTpon  the  Mountain,  on  the  dreams  of  old 
Which  filled  the  earth  with  passing  loveliness, 
Which  flung  strange  music  on  the  howling  winds, 
And  odors  rapt  from  remote  Paradise? 
Thy  sense  is  clogged  with  dull  mortality: 
Open  thine  eyes  and  see." 

I  looked,  but  not 

Upon  his  face,  for  it  was  wonderful 
With  its  exceeding  brightness,  and  the  light 
Of  the  great  Angel  Mind  which  looked  from  ont 
The  starry  glowing  of  his  restless  eyes. 
I  felt  my  soul  grow  mighty,  and  my  spirit 
With  supernatural  excitation  bound 
Within  me,  and  my  mental  eye  grew  large 
With  such  a  vast  circumference  of  thought, 
That  in  my  vanity  I  seemed  to  stand 
Upon  the  outward  verge  and  bound  alone 
Of  full  beatitude.    Each  failing  sense, 
As  with  a  momentary  flash  of  light, 
Grew  thrillingly  distinct  and  keen.    I  saw 
The  smallest  grain  that  dappled  the  dark  earth, 
The  indistinctest  atom  in  deep  air, 
The  Moon's  white  cities,  and  the  opal  width 
Of  her  small  glowing  lakes,  her  silver  heights 
Unvisited  with  dew  of  vagrant  cloud, 
And  the  unsounded,  undescended  depth 
Of  her  black  hollows.    The  clear  galaxy 
Shorn  of  its  hoary  lustre,  wonderful, 
Distinct  and  vivid  with  sharp  points  of  light, 
Blaze  within  blaze,  an  unimagined  depth 
And  harmony  of  planet-girded  suns 
And  moon-encircled  planets,  wheel  in  wheel, 
Arched  the  wan  sapphire.    Nay— the  hum  of  men, 
Or  other  things  talking  in  unknown  tongues, 
And  notes  of  busy  life  in  distant  worlds 
Beat  like  a  far  wave  on  my  anxious  ear. 

A  maze  of  piercing,  trackless,  thrilling  thoughts, 
Involving  and  embracing  each  with  each, 
Rapid  as  fire,  inextricably  linked, 
Expanding  momently  with  every  sight 
And  sound  which  struck  the  palpitating  sense, 
The  issue  of  strong  impulse,  hurried  through 
The  riven  rapt  brain ;  as  when  in  some  large  lake 
From  pressure  of  descendant  crags,  which  lapse 
Disjointed,  crumbling  from  their  parent  slope 
At  slender  interval,  the  level  calm 
Is  ridged  with  restless  and  increasing  spheres 
Which  break  upon  each  other,  each  th'  effect 
Of  separate  impulse,  but  more  fleet  and  strong 


TIMBUCTOO. 


Than  its  precursor,  till  the  eye  in  vain 
Amid  the  wild  unrest  of  swimming  shade 
Dappled  with  hollow  and  alternate  rise 
Of  interpenetrated  arc,  would  scan 
Definite  round. 

I  know  not  if  I  shape 
These  things  with  accurate  similitude 
From  visible  objects,  for  but  dimly  now, 
Less  vivid  than  a  half-forgotten  dream, 
The  memory  of  that  mental  excellence 
Comes  o'er  me,  and  it  may  be  I  entwine 
The  indecision  of  my  present  mind 
With  its  past  clearness,  yet  it  seems  to  me 
As  even  then  the  torrent  of  quick  thought 
Absorbed  me  from  the  nature  of  itself 
With  its  own  fleetness.    Where  is  he,  that  borne 
Adown  the  sloping  of  an  arrowy  stream, 
Could  link  his  shalop  to  the  fleeting  edge, 
And  muse  midway  with  philosophic  calm 
Upon  the  wondrous  laws  which  regulate 
The  fierceness  of  the  bounding  element? 

My  thoughts  which  long  had  grovelled  in  the  slime 
Of  this  dull  world,  like  dusky  worms  which  house 
Beneath  unshaken  waters,  but  at  once 
Upon  gome  earth-awakeuiug  day  of  Spring 
Do  pass  from  gloom  to  glory,  and  aloft 
Winnow  the  purple,  bearing  on  both  sides 
Double  display  of  star-lit  wings,  which  burn 
Fan-like  and  fibred  with  intensest  bloom ; 
Even  so  my  thoughts  erewhile  so  low,  now  felt 
Unutterable  buoyancy  and  strength 
To  bear  them  upward  through  the  trackless  fields 
Of  undefined  existence  far  and  free. 

Then  first  within  the  South  methought  I  saw 
A  wilderness  of  spires,  and  crystal  pile 
Of  rampart  upon  rampart,  dome  on  dome, 
Illimitable  range  of  battlement 
On  battlement,  and  the  Imperial  height 
Of  canopy  o'ercanopied. 

Behind 

In  diamond  light  up  spring  the  dazzling  peaks 
Of  Pyramids,  as  far  surpassing  enrth's 
As  heaven  than  earth  is  fairer.    Each  aloft 
Upon  his  narrowed  eminence  bore  globes 
Of  wheeling  suns,  or  stars,  or  semblances 
Of  either,  showering  circular  abyss 
Of  radiance.    But  the  glory  of  the  place 
Stood  out  a  pillared  front  of  burnished  gold, 
Interminably  high,  if  gold  it  were 
Or  metal  more  ethereal,  and  beneath 
Tn-o  doors  of  blinding  brilliance,  where  no  gaze 
Might  rest,  stood  open,  and  the  eye  could  scan, 
Through  length  of  porch  and  valve  and  boundless 

hall, 

Part  of  a  throne  of  fiery  flame,  wherefrom 
The  snowy  skirting  of  a  garment  hung, 
And  glimpse  of  multitude  of  multitudes 
That  ministered  around  it  —  if  I  saw 
These  things  distinctly,  for  my  human  brain 
Staggered  beneath  the  vision,  and  thick  night 
Came  down  upon  my  eyelids,  and  I  fell. 

With  ministering  hand  he  raised  me  up: 
Then  with  a  mournful  and  ineffable  smile, 
Which  but  to  look  on  for  a  moment  filled 


My  eyes  with  irresistible  sweet  tears, 

In  accents  of  majestic  melody, 

Like  a  swoln  river's  gushings  in  still  night 

Singled  with  floating  music,  thus  he  spake : 

"There  is  no  mightier  Spirit  than  I  to  sway 
The  heart  of  man;  and  teach  him  to  attain 
By  shadowing  forth  the  Unattainable  ; 
And  step  by  step  to  scale  that  mighty  stair 
Whose  landing-place  is  wrapt  about  with  clouds 
Of  glory  of  heaven.*    With  earliest  light  of  Spring, 
And  in  the  glow  of  sallow  Summertide, 
And  in  red  Autumn  when  the  winds  are  wild 
With  gambols,  and  when  full-voiced  Winter  roofs 
The  headland  with  inviolate  white  snow, 
I  play  about  his  heart  a  thousand  ways, 
!  Visit  his  eyes  with  visions,  and  his  ears 
With  harmonies  of  wind  and  wave  and  wood, 
—  Of  winds  which  tell  of  waters,  and  of  waters 
Betraying  the  close  kisses  of  the  wind  — 
And  win  him  unto  me :  and  few  there  be 
So  gross  of  heart  who  have  not  felt  and  known 
A  higher  than  they  see :  they  with  dim  eyes 
Behold  me  darkling.    Lo !  I  have  given  thee 
To  understand  my  presence,  and  to  feel 
My  fullness:  I  have  filled  thy  lips  with  power. 
I  have  raised  thee  nigher  to  the  spheres  of  heaven, 
Man's  first,  last  home :  and  thou  with  ravished  sense 
Listenest  the  lordly  music  flowing  from 
The  illimitable  years.    I  am  the  Spirit, 
The  permeating  life  which  courseth  through 
All  th'  intricate  and  labyrinthine  veins 
Of  the  great  vine  of  Fable,  which,  outspread 
With  growth  of  shadowing  leaf  and  clusters  rare, 
Eeacheth  to  every  corner  under  heaven, 
Deep-rooted  in  the  living  soil  of  truth ; 
So  that  men's  hopes  and  fears  take  refuge  in 
The  fragrance  of  its  complicated  glooms, 
And  cool  impleached  twilights.    Child  of  man, 
Seest  thou  yon  river,  whose  translucent  wave, 
Forth  issuing  from  the  darkness,  wiudeth  through 
The  argent  streets  o'  the  city,  imaging 
The  soft  inversion  of  her  tremulous  domes, 
Her  gardens  frequent  with  the  stately  palm, 
Her  pagods  hung  with  music  of  sweet  bells, 
Her  obelisks  of  ranged  chrysolite, 
Minarets  and  towers?    Lo !  how  he  passeth  by, 
And  gnlphs  himself  in  sands,  as  not  enduring 
To  carry  through  the  world  those  waves,  which  bore 
The  reflex  of  my  city  in  their  depths. 
Oh  city:  oh  latest  throne!  where  I  was  raised 
To  be  a  mystery  of  loveliness 
Unto  all  eyes,  the  time  is  well-nigh  come 
When  I  must  render  up  this  glorious  home 
To  keen  Discovery;  soon  yon  brilliant  towers 
Shall  darken  with  the  waving  of  her  wand ; 
Darken  and  shrink  and  shiver  into  huts, 
Black  specks  amid  a  waste  of  dreary  sand, 
Low-built,  mud-walled,  barbarian  settlements. 
How  changed  from  this  fair  city !" 

Thus  far  the  Spirit : 

Then  parted  heaven-ward  on  the  wing:  and  I 
Was  left  alone  on  Calpe,  and  the  moon 
Had  fallen  from  the  night,  and  all  was  dark ! 


**  Be  ye  perfect, 


father  ia  heav 


,  per.^ct." 


236 


ELEGIACS.— THE  "HOW"  AND  THE  "WHY." 


POEMS  PUBLISHED  IN  THE  EDITION  OF  1830, 
AND  OMITTED  IN  LATER  EDITIONS. 


ELEGIACS. 

LOWFLOWINO  breezes  are  roaming  the  broad  valley 

dimmed  in  the  gloming: 
Thro'  the   blackstemmed  piues   only  the  far  river 

shines. 
Creeping  through  hlossomy  rushes  and  bowers  of 

roseblowing  bushes, 

Down  by  the  poplar  tall  rivulets  babble  and  fall. 
Barketh  the  shepherd-dog  cheerly;  the  grasshopper 

carolleth  clearly; 

Deeply  the  turtle  coos ;  shrilly  the  owlet  halloos ; 
Winds  creep:   clews  fall  chilly:   in  her  first  sleep 

earth  breathes  stilly: 
Over  the  pools  in  the  burn  watergnats  murmur  and 

mourn. 
Sadly  the  far  kiiie  loweth:   the  glimmering  water 

outfloweth : 
Twin  peaks  shadowed  with  pine  slope  to  the  dark 

hyaline. 
Lowthroned   Hesper   is    stayed  between    the    two 

peaks;  but  the  Naiad 
Throbbing  in  wild  unrest  holds  him  beneath  in  her 

breast. 
The  ancient  poetess  singeth  that  Hesperus  all  things 

bringeth, 
Smoothing  the  wearied  mind:   bring  me  my  love, 

Eosalind. 
Thou  comest  morning  and  even;   she  cometh  not 

morning  or  even. 

False-eyed  Hesper,  unkind,  where  is  iny  sweet  Ro- 
salind ? 


THE  "HOW"  AND  THE  "WHY." 
t 

I  AM  any  man's  suitor, 
If  any  will  be  my  tutor: 
Some  say  this  life  is  pleasant, 
Some  think  it  speedeth  fast, 
In  time  there  is  no  present, 
In  eternity  no  future, 
In  eternity  no  past 

We  laugh,  we  cry,  we  are  bom,  we  die, 
Who  will  riddle  me  the  how  and  the  why? 

The  bulrush  nods  unto  its  brother. 

The  wheatears  whisper  to  each  other: 

What  is  it  they  say  ?  what  do  they  there  ? 

Why  two  and  two  make  four?  why  round  is  not 

square  ? 

Why  the  rock  stands  still,  and  the  light  clouds  fly  ? 
Why  the  heavy  oak  groans,  and  the  white  willows 

sigh? 

Why  deep  is  not  high,  and  high  is  not  deep? 
Whether  we  wake,  or  whether  we  sleep  ? 
Whether  we  sleep,  or  whether  we  die? 
How  you  are  you?  why  I  am  I? 
Who  will  riddle  me  the  how  and  the  why? 

The  world  is  somewhat;  it  goes  on  somehow: 
But  what  is  the  meaning  of  then  and  nowt 

I  feel  there  is  something;  but  how  and  what? 
I  know  there  is  somewhat:  but  what  and  why? 
I  cannot  tell  if  that  somewhat  be  I. 


The  little  bird  pipeth  —  "why?  why?" 
In  the  summer  woods  when  the  sun  falls  low, 
And  the  great  bird  sits  on  the  opposite  bough, 
And  stares  in  his  face,  and  shouts  "how?  how?" 
And  the  black  owl  scuds  down  the  mellow  twilight 
And  chants  "how?  how?"  the  whole  cf  the  night. 

Why  the  life  goes  when  the  blood  is  spilt? 

What  the  life  is?  where  the  soul  may  lie? 
Why  a  church  is  with  a  steeple  built: 
And  a  house  with  a  chimney-pot? 
Who  will  riddle  me  the  how  and  the  what? 

Who  will  riddle  me  the  what  and  the  why? 


SUPPOSED  CONFESSIONS 

OP  A   SECOND-RATE    SENSITIVE   MIND   NOT   IN 
UNITY  WITH   ITSELF. 

On  Gon !  my  God !  have  mercy  now. 

I  faint,  I  fall.    Men  say  that  thou 

Didst  die  for  me,  for  such  as  me, 

Patient  of  ill,  and  death,  and  scorn, 

And  that  my  sin  was  as  a  thorn 

Among  the  thorns  that  girt  thy  brow, 

Wounding  thy  soul. — That  even  now, 

In  this  extremest  misery 

Of  ignorance,  I  should  require 

A  sign !  and  if  a  bolt  of  fire 

Would  rive  the  slumbrous  summc/  noon 

While  I  do  pray  to  thee  alone, 

Think  my  belief  would  stronger  grow '. 

Is  not  my  human  pride  brought  low  ? 

The  boastings  of  my  spirit  still  ? 

The  joy  I  had  in  my  free  will 

All  cold,  and  dead,  and  corpse-like  grown  ? 

And  what  is  left  to  me,  but  thou, 

And  faith  in  thee  ?    Men  pass  me  by : 

Christians  with  happy  countenances  — 

And  children  all  seem  full  of  thee  ! 

And  women  smile  with  saintlike  glances 

Like  thine  own  mother's  when  she  bowed 

Above  thee,  on  that  happy  morn 

When  angels  spake  to  men  aloud, 

And  thou  and  peace  to  earth  were  born. 

Goodwill  to  me  as  well  as  all — 

— I  one  of  them:  my  brothers  they: 

Brothers  in  Christ  —  a  world  of  peace 

And  confidence,  day  after  day ; 
And  trust  and  hope  till  things  should  cease, 

And  then  one  Heaven  receive  us  all. 

How  sweet  to  have  a  common  faith ! 
To  hold  a  common  scorn  of  death  1 
And  at  a  burial  to  hear 

The  creaking  cords  which  wound  and  eat 
Into  my  human  heart,  whene'er 
Earth  goes  to  earth,  with  grief,  not  fear, 

With  hopeful  grief,  were  passing  sweet ! 
A  grief  not  uninformed,  and  dull, 
Hearted  with  hope,  of  hope  as  full 
As  is  the  blood  with  life,  or  night 
And  a  dark  cloud  with  rich  moonlight. 
To  stand  beside  a  grave,  and  see 
The  red  email  atoms  wherewith  we 


SUPPOSED  CONFESSIONS  OF  A  SECOND-RATE  SENSITIVE  MIND.        237 


Are  built,  and  smile  in  calm,  and  say  — 
"These  little  motes  and  grains  shall  be 
Clothed  on  with  immortality 
More  glorious  than  the  noon  of  day. 
All  that  is  pass'd  into  the  flowers, 
And  into  beasts  and  other  men, 
And  all  the  Norland  whirlwind  showers 
From  open  vaults,  and  all  the  sea 
O'erwashes  with  sharp  salts,  again 
Shall  fleet  together  all,  and  fca 
Indued  with  immortality." 

Thrice  happy  state  again  to  be 
The  trustful  infant  oil  the  knee! 
Who  lets  his  waxen  fingers  play 
About  his  mother's  neck,  and  knows 
Nothing  beyond  his  mother's  eyes. 
They  comfort  him  by  night  and  day, 
They  light  his  little  life  alway ; 
lie  hath  no  thought  of  coming  woes ; 
He  hath  no  care  of  life  or  death, 
Scarce  outward  signs  of  joy  arise, 
Because  the  Spirit  of  happiness 
And  perfect  rest  so  inward  is  ; 
And  loveth  so  his  innocent  heart, 
Her  temple  and  her  place  of  birth, 
Where  she  would  ever  wish  to  dwell, 
Life  of  the  fountain  there,  beneath 
Its  salient  springs,  and  far  apart, 
Hating  to  wander  out  on  earth, 
Or  breathe  into  the  hollow  air, 
Whose  chillness  would  make  visible 
Her  subtil,  warm,  and  golden  breath, 
Which  mixing  with  the  infant's  blood, 
Fullfills  him  with  beatitude. 
Oh !  sure  it  is  a  special  care 
Of  God,  to  fortify  from  doubt, 
To  arm  in  proof,  and  guard  about 
With  triple  mailed  trust,  and  clear 
Delight,  the  infant's  dawning  year. 
Wotild  that  my  gloomed  fancy  were 
As  thine,  my  mother,  \vhen  with  brows 
Propped  on  thy  knees,  my  hands  upheld 
In  thine,  I  listened  to  thy  vows, 
For  me  outpoured  in  holiest  prayer— 
For  me  unworthy!  —  and  beheld 
Thy  mild  deep  eyes  upraised,  that  knew 
The  beauty  and  repose  of  faith, 
And  the  clear  spirit  shining  through. 
Oh !  wherefore  do  we  grow  awry 
From  roots  which  strike  so  deep  ?  why  dare 
Paths  in  the  desert?    Could  not  I 
Bow  myself  down,  where  thou  hast  knelt, 
To  th' earth — until  the  ice  would  melt 
Here,  and  I  feel  as  thou  hast  felt? 
What  Devil  had  the  heart  to  scathe 
Flowers  thou  hadst  reared  — to  brush  the  dew 
From  thine  own  lily,  when  thy  grave 
Was  deep,  my  mother,  in  the  clay  ? 
.Myself?    Is  it  thus?    Myself?    Had  I 
So  little  love  for  thee?    But  why 
Prevailed  not  thy  pure  prayers  ?    Why  pray 
To  one  who  heeds  not,  who  can  save 
But  will  not?    Great  in  faith,  and  strong 
Against  the  grief  of  circumstance 
Wert  thou,  and  yet  unheard?    What  if 
Thou  pleadest  still,  and  seest  me  drive 
Through  utter  dark  a  full-sailed  skiff, 
Unpiloted  i'  the  echoing  dance 
Of  reboant  whirlwinds,  stooping  low 
Unto  the  death,  not  sunk !    I  know 
At  matins  and  at  evensong, 
That  thou,  if  thou  wert  yet  alive. 
In  deep  and  daily  prayers  would'st  strive 
To  reconcile  me  with  thy  God. 
Albeit,  my  hope  is  gray,  and  cold 
At  heart,  thou  wouldest  murmur  still  — 
"Bring  this  lamb  back  into  thy  fold. 


My  Lord,  if  so  it  be  thy  will." 

Would'st  tell  me  I  must  brook  the  rod, 

And  chastisement  of  human  pride ; 

That  pride,  the  sin  of  devils,  stood 

Betwixt  me  and  the  light  of  God  1 

That  hitherto  I  had  defied, 

And  had  rejected  God  — that  Grace 

Would  drop  from  his  o'erbrimming  love, 

As  manna  on  my  wilderness, 

If  I  would  pray  — that  God  would  move 

And  strike  the  hard,  hard  rock,  and  thence, 

Sweet  in  their  utmost  bitterness, 

Would  issue  tears  of  penitence 

Which  would  keep  green  hope's  life.    Alas  1 

I  think  that  pride  hath  now  no  place 

Or  sojourn  in  me.    I  am  void, 

Dark,  formless,  utterly  destroyed. 

Why  not  believe  then?    Why  not  yet 
Anchor  thy  frailty  there,  where  man 
Hath  moored  and  rested?    Ask  the  sea 
At  midnight,  when  the  crisp  slope  waves 
After  a  tempest,  rib  and  fret 
The  broadimbased  beach,  why  he 
Slumbers  not  like  a  mountain  torn  ? 
Wherefore  his  ridges  are  not  curls 
And  ripples  of  an  inland  meer  ? 
Wherefore  he  moaneth  thus,  nor  can 
Draw  down  into  his  vexed  pools 
All  that  blue  heaven  which  hues  and  paves 
The  other?    I  am  too  forlorn, 
Too  shaken:  my  own  weakness  fools 
My  judgment,  and  my  spirit  whirls, 
Moved  from  beneath  with  doubt  and  fear. 

"Yet,"  said  I,  in  my  morn  of  youth, 

The  unsunned  freshness  of  my  etrengtn, 

When  I  went  forth  in  quest  of  truth, 

"It  is  man's  privilege  to  doubt, 

If  so  be  that  from  doubt  at  length, 

Truth  may  stand  forth  unmoved  of  change, 

An  image  M7ith  profulgent  brows, 

And  perfect  limbs,  as  from  the  storm 

Of  running  fires  and  fluid  range 

Of  lawless  airs  at  last  stood  out 

This  excellence  and  solid  form 

Of  constant  beauty.    For  the  Ox 

Feeds  in  the  herb,  and  sleeps,  or  fills 

T.he  horned  valleys  all  about, 

And  hollows  of  the  fringed  hills 

In  summerheats,  with  placid  lows 

Uufearing,  till  his  own  blood  flows 

About  his  hoof.    And  in  the  flocks 

The  lamb  rejoiceth  in  the  year, 

And  raceth  freely  with  his  fere, 

And  answers  to  his  mother's  calls 

From  the  flowered  furrow.    In  a  time, 

Of  which  he  wots  not,  run  short  pains 

Through  his  warm  heart ;  and  then,  from  whence 

He  knows  not,  on  his  light  there  falls 

A  shadow;  and  his  native  slope, 

Where  he  was  wont  to  leap  and  climb, 

Floats  from  his  sick  and  filmed  eyes, 

And  something  in  the  darkness  draws 

His  forehead  earthward,  and  he  dies. 

Shall  men  live  thus,  in  joy  and  hope 

As  a  young  lamb,  who  cannot  dream, 

Living,  but  that  he  shall  live  on  ? 

Shall  we  not  look  into  the  laws 

Of  life  and  death,  and  things  that  seem, 

And  things  that  be,  and  analyze 

Onr  double  nature,  and  compare 

All  creeds  till  we  have  found  the  one, 

If  one  there  be?"    Ay  me!    I  fear 

All  may  not  doubt,  but  every  where 

Some  must  clasp  Idols.    Yet,  my  God, 

Whom  call  I  Idol  ?    Let  thy  dove 

Shadow  me  over,  and  my  sins 


238 


THE  BURIAL  OF  LOVE.— TO 


-.—SONGS. 


Be  unremembered,  and  thy  love 
Enlighten  me.    Oh  teach  me  yet 
Somewhat  before  the  heavy  clod 
Weighs  on  me,  and  the  busy  fret 
Of  that  sharp-headed  worm  begins 
In  the  gross  blackness  underneath. 

Oh  weary  life !  oh  weary  death ! 
Oh  spirit  and  heart  made  desolate ! 
Oh  damned  vacillating  state! 


THE  BURIAL  OF  LOVE. 

His  eyes  in  eclipse, 
Palecold  his  lips, 
The  light  of  his  hopes  unfed, 
Mute  his  tongue, 
His  bow  unstrung 
With  the  tears  he  hath  shed, 
Backward  drooping  his  graceful  head, 

Love  is  dead: 
His  last  arrow  is  sped; 
He  hath  not  another  dart; 
Go  — carry  him  to  his  dark  deathbed; 
Bury  him  in  the  cold,  cold  heart  — 
Love  is  dead. 

Oh,  truest  love !  art  thou  forlorn, 
And  unrevenged  ?  thy  pleasant  wiles 
Forgotten,  and  thine  innocent  joy  ? 
Shall  hollowhearted  apathy, 
The  cruellest  form  of  perfect  scorn, 
With  languor  of  most  hateful  smiles, 
For  ever  write, 
In  the  withered  light 
Of  the  tearless  eye, 
An  epitaph  that  all  may  spy  ? 
No  !  sooner  she  herself  shall  die. 

For  her  the  showers  shall  not  fall, 

Nor  the  round  sun  shine  that  shineth  to  all; 

Her  light  shall  into  darkness  change ; 
For  her  the  green  grass  shall  not  spring, 
Nor  the  rivers  flow,  nor  the  sweet  birds  sing, 

Till  Love  have  his  full  revenge. 


TO . 

SAINTED  Juliet !  dearest  name  ! 
If  to  love  be  life  alone, 
Divinest  Juliet, 
I  love  thee,  and  live;  and  yet 
Love  nnreturned  is  like  the  fragrant  flame 
Folding  the  slaughter  of  the  sacrifice 

Offered  to  gods  upon  an  altar-throne; 
My  heart  is  lighted  at  thine  eyes, 
Changed  into  fire,  and  blown  about  with  sighs. 


SONG. 
I. 

I'  THE  glooming  light 

Of  middle  night 

So  cold  and  white, 
Worn  Sorrow  sits  by  the  moaning  wave, 

Beside  her  are  laid 

Her  mattock  and  spade, 
For  she  hath  half  delved  her  own  deep  grave. 

Alone  she  is  there: 
The  white  clouds  drizzle :  her  hair  falls  loose : 

Her  shoulders  are  bare ; 
Her  tears  are  mixed  with  the  beaded  dews. 


II. 

Death  standeth  by ; 
She  will  not  die; 
With  glazed  eye 

She  looks  at  her  grave :  she  cannot  sleep ; 
Ever  alone 

She  maketh  her  moan : 
She  cannot  speak:  she  can  only  weep, 

For  she  will  not  hope. 
The  thick  snow  falls  on  her  flake  by  flake, 

The  dull  wave  mourns  down  the  slope, 
The  world  will  not  change,  and  her  heart  will  not 
break. 


SONG. 
I. 

THE  lintwhite  and  the  throstlecock 
Have  voices  sweet  and  clear; 
All  in  the  bloomed  May. 
They  from  the  blosmy  brere 
Call  to  the  fleeting  year, 
If  that  he  would  them  hear 

And  stay. 

Alas !  that  one  so  beautiful 
Should  have  eo  dull  an  ear. 

II. 

Fair  year,  fair  year,  thy  children  can, 
But  thou  art  deaf  as  death ; 
All  in  the  bloomed  May. 
When  thy  light  perisheth 
That  from  thee  issueth, 
Our  life  evauisheth: 

Oh!  stay. 

Alas!  that  lips  so  cruel-dumb 
Should  have  so  sweet  a  breath  1 

III. 

Fair  year,  with  brows  of  royal  love 
Thou  comest,  as  a  king, 

All  in  the  bloomid  May. 
Thy  golden  largess  fling, 
And  longer  hear  us  sing ; 
Though  thou  art  fleet  of  wing, 

Yet  stay. 

Alas !  that  eyes  so  full  of  light 
Should  be  so  wandering  ! 

IV. 

Thy  locks  are  all  of  sunny  sheen 
In  rings  of  gold  yronne,* 

All  in  the  bloomed  May. 
We  pri'thee  pass  not  on ; 
If  thou  dost  leave  the  sun, 
Delight  is  with  thee  gone. 

Oh!  stay. 

Thou  art  the  fairest  of  thy  feres, 
We  pri'thee  pass  not  on. 


SONG. 
I. 

EVERY  day  hath  its  night : 

Every  night  its  morn: 
Thorough  dark  and  bright 
Winged  hours  are  borne  ; 

Ah !  welaway ! 
Seasons  flower  and  fade ; 
Golden  calm  and  storm 
Mingle  day  by  day. 
There  is  no  bright  form 
Doth  not  cast  a  shade  — 

Ah !  welaway  I       


'  His  crisji  hair  in  ringis  wn3  yronne." — CHAUCK,  KniyM'a  Tub. 


NOTHING  WILL  DIE.— HERO  TO  LEANDER. 


239 


II. 

When  we  laugh,  and  our  mirth 

Apes  the  happy  vein, 
We're  so  kin  to  earth, 
Pleasaunce  fathers  pain  — 

Ah!  welaway! 
Madness  langheth  loud: 
Laughter  bringeth  tears: 
Eyes  are  worn  away 
Till  the  end  of  fears 
Cometh  in  the  shroud, 
Ah !  welaway ! 

III. 

All  is  change,  woe  or  weal ; 

Joy  is  Sorrow's  brother; 
Grief  and  gladness  steal 
Symbols  of  each  other ; 

Ah !  welaway ! 
Larks  in  heaven's  cope 
Sing:  the  culvers  mourn 
All  the  livelong  day. 
Be  not  all  forlorn: 
Let  us  weep  in  hope  — 
Ah !  welaway ! 


NOTHING  WILL  DIE. 

WHEN  will  the  stream  be  aweary  of  flowing 

Under  my  eye? 
When  will  the  wind  be  aweary  of  blowing 

Over  the  sky? 

When  will  the  clouds  be  aweary  of  fleeting? 
When  will  the  heart  be  aweary  of  beating  ? 

And  nature  die? 
Never,  oh !  never,  nothing  will  die ; 

The  stream  flows, 

The  wind  blows, 

The  cloud  fleets, 

The  heart  beats, 
Nothing  will  die. 

Nothing  will  die ; 

All  things  will  change 
Through  eternity. 
'Tis  the  world's  winter; 
Autumn  and  summer 
Are  gone  long  ago. 
Earth  is  dry  to  the  centre, 

But  spring  a  new  comer — 
A  spring  rich  and  strange, 
Shall  make  the  winds  blow 
Bound  and  round, 
Through  and  through, 
Here  and  there, 
Till  the  air 
And  the  ground 
Shall  be  filled  with  life  anew. 
The  world  was  never  made; 
It  will  change,  but  it  will  not  fade. 
So  let  the  wind  range ; 
For  even  and  morn 
Ever  will  be 
Through  eternity. 
Nothing  was  born; 
Nothing  will  die ; 
All  things  will  change. 


ALL  THINGS  WILL  DIE. 
CLEARLY  the  blue  river  chimes  in  its  flowing 

Under  my  eye ; 
\Vannly  and  broadly  the  south  winds  are  blowing 

Over  the  sky. 

One  after  another  the  white  clouds  are  fleeting; 
Every  heart  this  Maymorning  in  joyauce  is  beating 

Full  merrily; 


Yet  all  things  must  die. 
The  stream  will  cease  to  flow ; 
The  wind  will  cease  to  blow ; 
The  clouds  will  cease  to  fleet; 
The  heart  will  cease  to  beat; 

For  all  things  must  die. 

All  thiugs  must  die. 
Spring  will  come  never  more. 

Oh !  vanity ! 

Death  waits  at  the  door. 
See !  our  friends  are  all  forsaking 
The  wine  and  merrymaking. 
We  are  called — we  must  go. 
Laid  low,  very  low, 
In  the  dark  we  must  lie. 
The  merry  glees  are  still ; 

The  voice  of  the  bird 

Shall  no  more  be  heard, 
Nor  the  wind  on  the  hill. 
Oh !  misery ! 

Hark!  death  is  calling 

While  I  speak  to  ye, 

The  jaw  is  falling, 

The  red  cheek  paling, 

The  strong  limbs  failing ; 

Ice  with  the  warm  blood  mixing; 

The  eyeballs  fixing. 

Mine  times  goes  the  passing  bell: 

Ye  merry  souls,  farewell. 

The  old  earth 

Had  a  birth, 

As  all  men  know 

Long  ago. 

And  the  old  earth  must  die. 
So  let  the  warm  winds  range, 
And  the  blue  wave  beat  the  shore; 
For  even  and  morn 
Ye  will  never  see 
Through  eternity. 
All  things  were  born. 
Ye  will  come  never  more, 
For  all  things  must  die. 


HERO  TO  LEANDER. 

On  go  not  yet,  my  love, 

The  night  is  dark  and  vast; 
The  white  moon  is  hid  in  her  heaven  above, 

And  the  waves  climb  high  and  fast. 
Oh !  kiss  me,  kiss  me,  once  again, 

Lest  thy  kiss  should  be  the  last. 
Oh  kiss  me  ere  we  part ; 
Grow  closer  to  my  heart. 
My  heart  is  warmer  surely  than  the  bosom  of  the 

main. 
O  joy !  O  bliss  of  blisses ! 

My  heart  of  hearts  art  thou. 
Come  bathe  me  with  thy  kisses, 

My  eyelids  and  my  brow. 
Hark  how  the  wild  rain  hisses, 

And  the  loud  sea  roars  below. 

Thy  heart  beats  through  thy  rosy  limbs, 

So  gladly  doth  it  stir ; 
Thine  eye  in  drops  of  gladness  swims. 

I  have  bathed  thee  with  the  pleasant  myrrh ; 
Thy  locks  are  dripping  balm; 
Thou  shalt  not  wander  hence  to-night, 

I'll  stay  thee  with  my  kisses. 
To-night  the  roaring  brine 

Will  rend  thy  golden  tresses ; 
The  ocean  with  the  morrow  light 
Will  be  both  blue  and  calm ; 

And  the  billow  will  embrace  thee  with  a  kiss  as  soft 
as  mine. 


240 


THE  MYSTIC.— THE  GRASSHOPPER—  CHORUS. 


No  Western  odours  wander 

On  the  black  and  moaning  sea, 
And  when  thou  art  dead,  Leander, 

My  soul  must  follow  thee  ! 
Oh  go  not  yet,  my  love, 

Thy  voice  is  sweet  and  low ; 
The  deep  salt  wave  breaks  in  above 

Those  marble  steps  below. 
The  turretstairs  are  wet 

That  lead  into  the  sea, 
Leander !  go  net  yet 
The  pleasant  stars  have  set: 
Oh !  go  not,  go  not  yet, 

Or  I  will  follow  thee. 


THE  MYSTIC. 

ANGEI.S  have   talked   with   him,   and   showed  him 

thrones : 

Ye  knew  him  not ;  he  was  not  one  of  ye, 
Ye  scorned  him  with  an  undiscerning  scoru: 
Ye  conld  not  read  the  marvel  in  his  eye, 
The  still  serene  abstraction:  he  hath  felt 
The  vanities  of  after  and  before ; 
Albeit,  his  spirit  and  his  secret  heart 
The  stern  experiences  of  converse  lives, 
The  Iink6d  woes  of  many  a  fiery  change 
Had  purified,  and  chastened,  and  made  free. 
Always  there  stood  before  him,  night  and  day, 
Of  wayward  varycolored  circumstance 
The  imperishable  presences  serene, 
Colossal,  without  form,  or  sense,  or  sound, 
Dim  shadows  but  unwaning  presences 
Fourfaced  to  four  corners  of  the  sky : 
And  yet  again,  three  shadows,  fronting  one, 
One  forward,  one  respectaut,  three  but  one ; 
And  yet  again,  again  and  evermore, 
For  the  two  first  were  not,  but  only  seemed, 
One  shadow  in  the  midst  of  a  great  light, 
One  reflex  from  eternity  on  time, 
One  mighty  countenance  of  perfect  calm, 
Awful  with  most  invariable  eyes. 
For  him  the  silent  congregated  hours, 
Daughters  of  time,  divinely  tall,  beneath 
Severe  and  youthful  brows,  with  shining  eyes 
Smiling  a  godlike  smile  (the  innocent  light 
Of  earliest  youth  pierced  through  and  through  with 

all 

Keen  knowledges  of  low-embowed  eld) 
Upheld,  and  ever  hold  aloft  the  cloud 
Which  droops  lowhung  on  either  gate  of  life, 
Both  birth  and  death:  he  in  the  centre  fixt, 
Saw  far  on  each  side  through  the  grated  gates 
Most  pale  and  clear  and  lovely  distances. 
He  often  lying  broad  awake,  and  yet 
Remaining  from  the  body,  and  apart 
In  intellect  and  power  and  will,  hath  heard 
Time  flowing  in  the  middle  of  the  night, 
And  all  things  creeping  to  a  day  of  doom. 
How  could  ye  know  him  ?    Ye  were  yet  within 
The  narrower  circle :  he  had  wellnigh  reached 
The  last,  which  with  a  region  of  white  flame, 
Pure  without  heat,  into  a  larger  air 
Upburning,  and  an  ether  of  black  blue, 
Investeth  and  ingirds  all  other  lives. 


THE  GRASSHOPPER. 
I. 

VOICE  of  the  summerwind, 

Joy  of  the  summerplain, 

Life  of  the  eummerhours, 

Carol  clearly,  bound  along. 

No  Tithon  thon  as  poets  feign 

(Shame  fall  'em  they  are  deaf  aud  blind), 


But  an  insect  lithe  and  strong, 
Bowing  the  seeded  summer  flowers. 
Prove  their  falsehood  and  thy  quarrel, 

Vaulting  on  thine  airy  feet. 
Clap  thy  shielded  sides  and  carol, 

Carol  clearly,  chirrup  sweet. 

Thou  art  a  mailed  warrior  in  youth  and  strength 
complete ; 

Armed  cap-a-pie 
Full  fair  to  see ; 
Unknowing  fear, 
Uudreadiug  loss, 
A  gallant  cavalier, 
Sans  pour  et  sans  reproche, 
In  sunlight  and  in  shadow, 
The  Bayard  of  the  meadow. 

II. 
I  would  dwell  with  thee, 

Merry  grasshopper, 
Thou  art  so  glad  and  free, 

And  as  light  as  air; 
Thou  hast  no  sorrow  or  tears, 
Thou  hast  no  compt  of  years, 
No  withered  immortality, 
But  a  short  youth  sunny  and  free. 
Carol  clearly,  bound  along, 

Soon  thy  joy  is  over, 
A  summer  of  loud  song, 

And  slumbers  in  the  clover. 
What  hast  thou  to  do  with  evil 
In  thine  hour  of  love  and  revel, 

In  thy  heat  of  summer  pride, 
Pushing  the  thick  roots  aside 
Of  the  singing  flowered  grasses, 
That  brush  thee  with  their  silken  tresses  ? 
What  hast  thou  to  do  with  evil, 
Shooting,  singing,  ever  springing 

In  and  out  the  emerald  glooms, 
Ever  leaping,  ever  singing, 

Lighting  on  the  golden  blooms? 


LOVE,  PRIDE,  AND  FORGETFULNESS. 

EKE  yet  my  heart  was  sweet  Love's  tomb, 

Love  laboured  honey  busily. 

I  was  the  hive,  and  Love  the  bee, 

My  heart  the  honeycomb. 

One  very  dark  and  chilly  night 

Pride  came  beneath  and  held  a  light. 

The  cruel  vapours  went  through  all, 
Sweet  Love  was  withered  in  his  cell; 
Pride  took  Love's  sweets,  and  by  a  spell 
Did  change  them  into  gall ; 
And  Memory,  though  fed  by  Pride, 
Did  wax  so  thin  on  gall, 
Awhile  she  scarcely  lived  at  all. 
What  marvel  that  she  died? 


CHORUS 

IN  AS   TTSPUBLIS1TED  DBAMA,  WEITTEN  VERY   EARLT. 

THE  varied  earth,  the  moving  heaven, 

The  rapid  waste  of  roving  sea, 
The  fountainpregnaut  mountains  riven 

To  shapes  of  wildest  anarchy, 
By  secret  fire  and  midnight  storms 

That  wander  round  their  windy  cones, 
The  subtle  life,  the  countless  forms 

Of  living  things,  the  wondrous  tones 
Of  man  and  beast  are  full  of  strange 
Astonishment  and  boundless  change. 


LOST  HOPE.— LOVE  AND  SORROW.— SONNETS. 


241 


The  day,  the  diamonded  night,  • 

The  echo,  feeble  child  of  sound. 
The  heavy  thunder's  griding  might, 

The  herald  lightning's  starry  bound, 
The  vocal  spring  of  bursting  bloom, 

The  naked  summer's  glowing  birth, 
The  troublous  autumn's  sallow  gloom, 

The  hoarhead  winter  paving  earth 
With  sheeny  white,  are  full  of  strange 
Astonishment  and  boundless  change. 

Eacn  sun  which  from  the  centre  flings 

Grand  music  and  redundant  fire, 
The  burning  belts,  the  mighty  rings, 

The  murm'rous  planets'  rolling  choir, 
The  globefllled  arch  that,  cleaving  air, 

Lost  in'its  own  effulgence  sleeps, 
The  lawless  comets  as  they  glare, 

And  thunder  through  the  sapphire  deeps 
In  wayward  strength,  are  full  of  strange 
Astonishment  and  boundless  change. 


LOST  HOPE. 

You  cast  to  ground  the  hope  which  once  was  mine : 
But  did  the  while  your  harsh  decree  deplore, 

Embalming  with  sweet  tears  the  vacant  shrine, 
My  heart,  where  Hope  had  been  and  was  no  more. 

So  on  an  oaken  sprout 
A  goodly  acorn  grew; 

But  winds  from  heaven  shook  the  acorn  out, 
And  filled  the  cup  with  dew. 


THE  TEARS  OF  HEAVEN. 

HEAVEN  weeps  above  the  earth  all  night  till  morn, 
In  darkness  weeps  as  all  ashamed  to  weep, 
Because  the  earth  hath  made  her  state  forlorn 
With  self-wrought  evil  of  unnumbered  years, 
And  doth  the  fruit  of  her  dishonor  reap. 
And  all  the  day  heaven  gathers  back  her  tears 
Into  her  own  blue  eyes  so  clear  and  deep, 
And  showering  down  the  glory  of  lightsome  day, 
Smiles  on  the  earth's  worn  brow  to  win  her  if  she 
may. 


LOVE  AND  SORROW. 

O  MAIDEN,  fresher  than  the  first  green  leaf 

With  which  the  fearful  springtide  flecks  the  lea, 

Weep  not,  Almeida,  that  I  said  to  thee 

That  thou  hast  half  my  heart,  for  bitter  grief 

Doth  hold  the  other  half  in  sovranty. 

Thou  art  my  heart's  sun  in  love's  crystalline: 

Yet  on  both  sides  at  once  thou  canst  not  shine: 

Thine  is  the  bright  side  of  my  ^leart,  and  thine 

My  heart's  day,  but  the  shadow  of  my  heart, 

Issue  of  its  own  substance,  my  heart's  night 

Thou  canst  not  lighten  even  with  thy  light, 

Allpowerful  in  beauty  as  thou  art. 

Almeida,  if  my  heart  were  substanceless, 

Then  might  thy  rays  pass  through  to  the  other  side, 

So  swiftly,  that  they  nowhere  would  abide, 

But  lose  themselves  in  utter  emptiness. 

Half-light,  half-shadow,  let  my  spirit  sleep ; 

They  never  learned  to  love  who  never  knew  to  weep. 


TO  A  LADY  SLEEPING. 

O  THOT7  whose  fringed  lids  I  gaze  upon, 
Through  whose  dim  brain  the  winged  dreams  are 
borne, 

16 


Unroof  the  shrines  of  clearest  vision, 

In  honor  of  the  silver-flecked  morn ; 

Long  hath  the  white  wave  of  the  virgin  light 

Driven  back  the  billow  of  the  dreamful  dark. 

Thou  all  unwittingly  prolongest  night, 

Though  long  ago  listening  the  poised  lark, 

With  eyes  dropt  downward  through  the  blue  serene, 

Over  heaven's  parapet  the  angels  lean. 


SONNET. 

COULD  I  outwear  my  present  state  of  woe 
With  one  brief  winter,  and  indue  i'  the  spring 
Hues  of  fresh  youth,  and  mightily  outgrow 
The  wan  dark  coil  of  faded  suffering  — 
Forth  in  the  pride  of  beauty  issuing 
A  sheeny  snake,  the  light  of  vernal  bowers, 
Moving  his  crest  to  all  sweet  plots  of  flowers 
And  watered  valleys  where  the  young  birds  sing ; 
Conld  I  thus  hope  my  lost  delight's  renewing, 
I  straightly  would  command  the  tears  to  creep 
From  my  charged  lids ;  but  inwardly  I  weep ; 
Some  vital  heat  as  yet  my  heart  is  wooing: 
That  to  itself  hath  drawn  the  frozen  rain 
From  my  cold  eyes,  and  melted  it  again. 


SONNET. 

THOUGH  Night  hath   climbed  her  peak    of  highert 

noon, 

And  bitter  blasts  the  screaming  autumn  whirl, 
All  night  through  archways  of  the  bridged  pearl, 
And  portals  of  pure  silver,  walks  the  moon. 
Walk  on,  my  soul,  nor  crouch  to  agony, 
Turn  clond  to  light,  and  bitterness  to  joy, 
And  dross  to  gold  with  glorious  alchemy, 
Basing  thy  throne  above  the  world's  annoy. 
Reign  thou  above  the  storms  of  sorrow  and  ruth 
That  roar  beneath ;  unshaken  peace  hath  won  thee; 
So  shalt  thou  pierce  the  woven  glooms  of  truth ; 
So  shall  the  blessing  of  the  meek  be  on  thee; 
So  in  thine  hour  of  dawn,  the  body's  youth, 
An  honourable  eld  shall  come  upon  thee. 


SONNET. 

SHALL  the  hag  Evil  die  with  child  of  Good, 
Or  propagate  again  her  loathed  kind, 
Thronging  the  cells  of  the  diseased  mind, 
Hateful  with  hanging  cheeks,  a  withered  brood, 
Though  hourly  pastured  on  the  salient  blood  ? 
Oh !  that  the  wind  which  bloweth  cold  or  heat 
Would  shatter  and  o'erbear  the  brazen  beat 
Of  their  broad  vans,  and  in  the  solitude 
Of  middle  space  confound  them,  and  blow  back 
Their  wild  cries  down  their  cavern  throats,  and  slate 
With  points  of  blastborne  hail  their  heated  eyne ! 
So  their  wan  limbs  no  more  might  come  between 
The  moon  and  the  moon's  reflex  in  the  night, 
Nor  blot  with  floating  shades  the  solar  light 


SONNET. 

THE  pallid  thunderetricken  sigh  for  gain, 
Down  an  ideal  stream  they  ever  float, 
And  sailing  on  Pactolns  in  a  boat, 
Drown  soul  and  sense,  while  wistfully  they  strain 
Weak  eyes  npdn  the  glistening  sands  that  robe 
The  nnderstream.    The  wise,  could  he  behold 
Cathedralled  caverns  of  thickribbed  gold 
And  branching  silvers  of  the%entral  globe, 
i  Would  marvel  from  so  beautiful  a  sight 


242        LOVE.— THE  KBAKEN.—  ENGLISH  WAR-SONG.— NATIONAL  SONG. 


How  scorn  and  ruin,  pain  and  hate  could  flow  .- 
But  Hatred  in  a  gold  cave  sits  below ; 
Pleached  with  her  hair,  in  mail  of  argent  light 
Shot  into  gold,  a  snake  her  forehead  clips, 
And  skina  the  colour  from  her  trembling  lips. 


LOVE. 
I. 

Tnou,  from  the  first,  unborn,  undying  love, 
Albeit  we  gaze  not  on  thy  glories  near, 
Before  the  face  of  God  didst  breathe  and  move, 
Though  night  and  pain  and  ruin  and  death  reigu 

here. 

Thou  foldest,  like  a  golden  atmosphere, 
The  very  throne  of  the  eternal  God: 
Passing  through  thee  the  edicts  of  his  fear 
Are  mellowed  into  music,  borne  abroad 
By  the  loud  winds,  though  they  uprend  the  sea, 
Even  from  its  central  deeps:  thine  empery 
Is  over  all ;  thou  wilt  not  brook  eclipse ; 
Thou  goest  and  returnest  to  His  lips 
Like  lightning:  thou  dost  ever  brood  above 
The  silence  of  all  hearts,  unutterable  Love. 

II. 

To  know  thee  is  all  wisdom,  and  old  age 
Is  but  to  know  thee:  dimly  we  behold  thee 
Athwart  the  veils  of  evils  which  infold  thee. 
We  beat  upon  our  aching  hearts  in  rage; 
We  cry  for  thee;  we  deem  the  world  thy  tomb. 
As  dwellers  in  lone  planets  look  upon 
The  mighty  disk  of  their  majestic  sun, 
Hollowed  in  awful  chasms  of  wheeling  gloom, 
Making  their  day  dim,  so  we  gaze  on  thee. 
Come,  thou  of  many  crowns,  whiterobed  love, 
Oh !  rend  the  veil  in  twain :  all  men  adore  thee ; 
Heaven  crieth  after  thee ;  earth  waiteth  for  thee ; 
Breathe  on  thy  winged  throne,  and  it  shall  move 
In  music  and  in  light  o'er  land  and  sea. 

III. 

And  now  —  methinks  I  gaze  upon  thee  now, 
As  on  a  serpent  in  his  agonies 
Awestricken  Indians ;  what  time  laid  low 
And  crushing  the  thick  fragrant  reeds  he  lies, 
When  the  new  year  warmbreathod  on  the  Earth, 
Waiting  to  light  him  with  her  purple  skies, 
Calls  to  him  by  the  fountain  to  uprise. 
Already  with  the  pangs  of  a  new  birth 
Strain  the  hot  spheres  of  his  convulsed  eyes, 
And  in  his  writhings  awful  hues  begin 
To  wander  down  his  sable-sheeny  sides, 
Like  light  on  troubled  waters :  from  within 
Anon  he  rusheth  forth  with  merry  din, 
And  in  him  light  and  joy  and  strength  abides ; 
And  from  his  brows  a  crown  of  living  light 
Looks  through  the  thickstemmed  woods  by  day  and 
night 


THE  KRAKEN. 

BELOW  the  thunders  of  the  upper  deep; 

Far,  far  beneath  in  the  abysmal  sea, 

His  ancient,  dreamless,  uninvaded  sleep, 

The  Kraken  sleepeth :  faintest  sunlights  flee 

About  his  shadowy  sides:  above  him  swell 

Huge  sponges  of  millennial  growth  and  height ; 

And  far  away  into  the  sickly  light, 

From  many  a  wondrous  grot  and  secret  cell 

Unnumbered  and  enormous  polypi 

Winnow  with  giant  flns  the  slumbering  green. 

There  hath  he  lain  for  ages  and  will  lie 

Battening  upon  huge  seaworms  in  his  sleep, 

Until  the  latter  fire  shall  heat  the  deep ; 

Then  once  by  man  <nd  angels  to  be  seen, 

In  roaring  he  shall  rise  and  on  the  surface  die. 


ENGLISH  WAR-SONG. 

W«o  fears  to  die  ?    Who  fears  to  die ! 
Is  there  any  here  who  fears  to  die  ? 
He  sha'.l  find  what  he  fears;  and  none  shall  grieve 

For  the  man  who  fears  to  die : 
But  the  withering  scorn  of  the  many  shall  cleave 
To  the  man  who  fears  to  die. 
CUOECB.  —  Shout  for  England  I 
Ho  !  for  England  ! 
George  for  England ! 
Merry  England  ! 
England  for  aye! 

The  hollow  at  heart  shall  crouch  forlorn, 

He  shall  eat  the  bread  oi'  common  scorn ; 
It  shall  be  steeped  in  the  salt,  salt  *ear, 

Shall  be  steeped  in  his  own  salt  tear: 
Far  better,  far  better  he  never  were  born 

Than  to  shame  merry  England  here. 
CHOBUS.  —  Shout  for  England  !  etc. 

There  standeth  our  ancient  enemy ; 

Hark  !  be  shonteth  —  the  ancient  enemy ! 
On  the  ridge  of  the  hill  his  banners  rise ; 

They  stream  like  fire  in  the  skies ; 
Hold  up  the  Lion  of  England  on  high 

Till  it  dazzle  and  blind  his  eyes. 

CHOKUS Shout  for  England!  etc. 

Come  along  I  we  alone  of  the  earth  are  free  ; 

The  child  in  our  cradles  is  bolder  than  he ; 
For  where  is  the  heart  and  strength  of  slaves  ? 

Oh !  where  is  the  strength  of  slaves  ? 
He  is  weak !  we  are  strong :  he  a  slave,  we  are  free 

Come  along !  we  will  dig  their  graves. 
CUOEUS.  —  Shout  for  England!  etc. 

There  standeth  our  ancient  enemy, 

Will  he  dare  to  battle  with  the  free  ? 
Spur  along !  spur  amain  I  charge  to  the  fight  r 

Charge !  charge  to  the  fight ! 
Hold  up  the  Lion  of  England  on  high ! 

Shout  for  God  and  our  right ! 

CIIOEUS.  —  Shout  for  England!  etc. 


NATIONAL  SONG. 

THERE  is  no  laud  like  England 
Where'er  the  light  of  day  be ; 
There  are  no  hearts  like  English  hearts. 

Such  hearts  of  oak  as  they  be. 
There  is  no  land  like  England . 
Where'er  the  light  of  day  be; 
There  are  no  men  like  Englishmen, 

So  tall  and  bold  as  they  be. 

Cnonrs.  —For  the  French  the  Pope  may  shrive  'em, 
For  the  devil  a  whit  we  heed  'em : 
As  for  the  French,  God  speed  'em 

Unto  their  heart's  desire, 
And  the  merry  devil  drive  'em 
Through  the  water  and  the  fire. 

FULL  CIIOE Our  glory  is  our  freedom, 

We  lord  it  o'er  the  sea; 
We  are  the  sons  of  freedom, 
We  are  free. 

There  is  no  land  like  England, 

Where'er  the  light  of  day  be ; 
There  are  no  wives  like  English  wives, 

So  fair  and  chaste  as  they  be. 
There  is  no  land  like  England, 

Where'er  the  light  of  day  be ; 
There  are  no  maids  like  English  maids, 

So  beautiful  as  they  be. 
CIIOECS.  —  For  the  French,  etc. 


DUALISMS.— WE  ARE  FREE.—  Ol  pkovrtf.— SONNET.— TO 


243 


DUALISMS. 

Two  bees  within  a  crystal  flowerbell  rocked, 
Hum  a  lovelay  to  the  westwind  at  noontide. 
Both  alike,  they  buzz  together, 
Both  alike,  they  hum  together, 
Through  and  through  the  flowered  heather. 
Where  in  a  creeping  cove  the  wave  unshocked 

Lays  itself  calm  and  wide. 
Over  a  stream  two  birds  of  glancing  feather 
Do  woo  each  other,  carolling  together. 
Both  alike,  they  glide  together, 

Side  by  side ;  • 

Both  alike,  they  sing  together, 
Arching  blue-glossed  necks  beneath  the  purple 
weather. 

Two  children  lovelier  than  Love  adown  the  lea  are 

singing, 

As  they  gambol,  lilygarlands  ever  stringing : 
Both  in  blosmwhite  silk  are  frocked: 
Like,  unlike,  they  roam  together 
Under  a  summervault  of  golden  weather ; 
Like,  unlike,  they  sing  together 

Side  by  side, 

MidMay's  darling  golden  locked, 
Summer's  tanling  diamond  eyed. 


WE  ARE  FREE. 

THE  winds,  as  at  their  hour  of  birth, 
Leaning  upon  the  winged  sea, 


Breathed  low  around  the  rolling  earth 
With  mellow  preludes,  "We  are  free." 

The  streams  through  many  a  lilied  row 
Down-carolling  to  the  crisped  sea, 

Low-tinkled  with  a  bell-like  flow 
Atween  the  blossoms,  "We  are  free." 


Ot  ptovTtg. 
I. 

ALL  thoughts,  all  creeds,  all  dreams  are  true, 

All  visions  wild  and  strange ; 
Man  is  the  measure  of  all  truth 

Unto  himself.    All  truth  is  change. 
All  men  do  walk  in  sleep,  and  all 

Have  faith  in  that  they  dream: 
For  all  things  are  as  they  seem  to  all, 

And  all  things  flow  like  a  stream. 

II. 

There  is  no  rest,  no  calm,  no  pause, 

Nor  good  nor  ill,  nor  light  nor  shade. 
Nor  essence  nor  eternal  laws : 

For  nothing  is,  but  all  is  made. 
But  if  I  dream  that  all  these  are, 

They  are  to  me  for  that  I  dream ; 
For  all  things  are  as  they  seem  to  all, 

And  all  things  flow  like  a  stream. 

Argal  —  this  very  opinion  is  only  true  relatively  tt 
the  flowing  philosophers. 


POEMS  PUBLISHED  IN  THE  EDITION  OF  1833, 
AND  OMITTED  IN  LATER  EDITIONS. 


SONNET. 

MINE  be  the  strength  of  spirit  fierce  and  free, 

Like  some  broad  river  rushing  down  alone, 

With  the  selfsame  impulse  wherewith  he  was  thrown 

From  his  loud  fount  upon  the  echoing  lea: — 

Which  with  increasing  might  doth  forward  flee 

By  town,  and  tower,  and  hill,  and  cape,  and  isle, 

And  in  the  middle  of  the  green  salt  sea 

Keeps  his  blue  waters  fresh  for  many  a  mile. 

Mine  be  the  Power  which  ever  to  its  sway 

Will  win  the  wise  at  once,  and  by  degrees 

May  into  uncongenial  spirits  flow; 

Even  as  the  great  gulfstream  of  Florida 

Floats  far  away  into  the  Northern  seas 

The  lavish  growths  of  southern  Mexico. 


TO 


I. 


ALL  good  things  have  not  kept  aloof, 
Nor  wandered  into  other  ways; 

I  have  not  lacked  thy  mild  reproof, 
Nor  golden  largess  of  thy  praise, 
But  life  is  full  of  weary  days. 

II. 

Shake  hands,  my  friend,  across  the  brink 
Of  that  deep  grave  to  which  I  go. 

Shake  hands  once  more:  I  cannot  sink 
So  far— far  down,  but  I  shall  know 
Thy  voice,  and  answer  from  below. 


III. 

When,  in  the  darkness  over  me, 
The  four-handed  mole  shall  scrape, 

Plant  thou  no  dusky  cypress  tree, 
Nor  wreathe  thy  cap  with  doleful  crape,  • 
But  pledge  me  in  the  flowing  grape. 

IV. 

And  when  the  sappy  field  and  wood 
Grow  green  beneath  the  showery  gray, 

And  rugged  barks  begin  to  bud, 
And  through  damp  holts,  newflushed  with  May, 
Eing  sudden  laughters  of  the  Jay ; 

V. 

Then  let  wise  Nature  work  her  will, 
And  on  my  clay  the  darnels  grow. 

Come  only  when  the  days  are  still, 
And  at  my  headstone  whisper  low, 
And  tell  me  if  the  woodbines  blow, 

VI. 

If  thou  art  blest,  my  mother's  smile 
Undimmed,  if  bees  are  on  the  wing : 

Then  cease,  my  friend,  a  little  while, 
That  I  may  hear  the  throstle  sing 
His  bridal  song,  the  boast  of  spring. 

VII. 

Sweet  as  the  noise  in  parched  plains 
Of  bubbling  wells  that  fret  the  stones 

(If  any  sense  in  me  remains), 
Thy  words  will  be ;  thy  cheerful  tones 
As  welcome  to  my  crumbling  bones. 


244 


BUONAPARTE.— SONNETS.— THE  HESPERIDES. 


BUONAPARTE. 

HE  thought  to  quell  the  stubborn  hearts  of  oak, 
Madman  ! — to  chain  with  chains,  and  bind  with  bands 
That  island  queen  that  sways  the  floods  and  lauds 
From  Iiid  to  Ind,  but  in  fair  daylight  woke, 
When  from  her  wooden  walls,  lit  by  sure  hands, 
With  thunders,  and  with  lightnings,  and  with  smoke, 
Peal  after  peal,  the  British  battle  broke, 
Lulling  the  brine  against  the  Coptic  sands. 
We  taught  him  lowlier  moods,  when  Elsinore 
Heard  the  war  moan  along  the  distant  sea, 
Rocking  with  shattered  spars,  with  sudden  fires 
Flamed  over:  at  Trafalgar  yet  once  more 
We  taught  him:  late  he  learned  humility  [erg. 

Perforce,  like  those  whom  Gideon  schooled  with  bri- 


SONNETS. 
I. 

0  BEAUTY,  passing  beauty !  sweetest  Sweet ! 

How  canst  thou  let  me  waste  my  youth  in  sighs  ? 

1  only  ask  to  sit  beside  thy  feet. 

Thou  knowest  I  dare  not  look  into  thine  eyes. 
Might  I  but  kiss  thy  hand !    I  dare  not  fold 

My  arms  about  thee  —  scarcely  dare  to  speak. 
And  nothing  seems  to  me  so  wild  and  bold, 

AB  with  one  kiss  to  touch  thy  blessed  cheek. 
Methinks  if  I  should  kiss  thee,  no  control 

Within  the  thrilling  brain  could  keep  afloat 

The  subtle  spirit.    Even  while  I  spoke, 
The  bare  word  Kiss  hath  made  my  inner  soul 

To  tremble  like  a  lutestring,  ere  the  note 

Hath  melted  in  the  silence  that  it  broke. 

II. 

But  were  I  loved,  as  I  desire  to  be, 
What  is  there  in  the  great  sphere  of  the  earth, 
And  range  of  evil  between  death  and  birth, 
That  I  should  fear,— if  I  were  loved  by  thee  f 
All  the  inner,  all  the  outer  world  of  pain 
Clear  Love  would  pierce  and  cleave,  if  thou  wert 

mine, 

As  I  have  heard  that,  somewhere  in  the  main, 
Fresh-water  springs  come  up  through  bitter  brine. 
Twere  joy,  not  fear,  clasped  hand-iu-hand  with  thee, 
To  wait  for  death — mute— careless  of  all  ills, 
Apart  upon  a  mountain,  though  the  surge 
Of  some  new  deluge  from  a  thousand  hills 
Flung  leagues  of  roaring  foam  into  the  gorge 
Beiow  us,  as  far  on  as  eye  could  see. 


THE  HESPERIDES. 

Hesperus  and  bis  daughters  three, 

That  sing  about  the  golden,  tree. — COMUS. 

THE  Northwind.falPn,  in  the  newstarred  night 
Zidonian  Hanno,  voyaging  beyond 
The  hoary  promontory  of  Soloe 
Past  Thymiaterion,  in  calmed  bays, 
Between  the  southern  and  the  western  Horn, 
Heard  neither  warbling  of  the  nightingale, 
Nor  melody  of  the  Libyan  lotus  flute 
Blown  seaward  from  the  shore;  but  from  a  slope 
That  ran  bloombright  into  the  Atlantic  blue, 
Beneath  a  highland  leaning  down  a  weight 
Of  cliff's,  and  zoned  below  with  cedar  shade, 
Came  voices,  like  the  voices  in  a  dream, 
Continuous,  till  he  reached  the  outer  sea. 

SONG. 
I. 

The  golden  apple,  the  golden  apple,  the  hallowed 
Guard  it  well,  guard  it  warily,  [fruit, 

Singing  airily, 


Standing  about  the  charmed  root. 
Round  about  all  is  mute, 
As  the  snowfield  on  the  mountaiu-peakSi 
As  the  saudfield  at  the  mountain-foot. 
Crocodiles  in  briny  creeks 
Sleep  and  stir  not:  all  is  mute. 
If  ye  sing  not,  if  ye  make  false  measure, 
We  shall  lose  eternal  pleasure, 
Worth  eternal  want  of  rest. 
Laugh  not  loudly:  watch  the  treasure 
Of  the  wisdom  of  the  West. 
In  a  corner  wisdom  whispers.    Five  and  three 
(Let  it  not  be  preached  abroad)  make  au  awful  mys- 
tery. 

For  the  blossom  unto  threefold  music  bloweth; 
Evermore  it  is  born  anew ; 
And  the  sap  to  threefold  music  floweth, 
From  the  root 
Drawn  in  the  dark, 
Up  to  the  fruit, 

Creeping  under  the  fragrant  bark, 
Liquid  gold,  honeysweet,  thro'  and  thro'. 
Keen-eyed  Sisters,  siugiug  airily, 
Looking  warily 
Every  way, 

Guard  the  apple  night  and  day, 
Lest  one  from  the  East  come  and  take  it  away. 

II. 

Father  Hesper,  Father  Hesper,  watch,  watch,  ever 
and  aye, 

Looking  under  silver  hair  with  a  silver  eye. 

Father,  twinkle  not  thy  steadfast  sight; 

Kingdoms  lapse,  and  climates  change,  and  races 
die; 

Honour  comes  with  mystery; 

Hoarded  wisdom  brings  delight. 

Number,  tell  them  over  and  number 

How  many  the  mystic  fruit  tree  holds 

Lest  the  redcombed  dragon  t-lumber 

Rolled  together  in  purple  folds. 

Look  to  him,  father,  lest  he  wink,  and  the  golden 
apple  be  stol'n  away, 

For  his  ancient  heart  is  drunk  with  overwatchinga 
night  and  day, 

Hound  about  the  hallowed  fruit  tree  curled — 

Sing  away,  sing  aloud  evermore  in  the  wind,  with- 
out stop, 

Lest  his  scaled  eyelid  drop, 

For  he  is  older  than  the  world. 

If  he  waken,  we  waken, 

Rapidly  levelling  eager  eyes. 

If  he  sleep,  we  sleep, 

Dropping  the  eyelid  over  the  eyes. 

If  the  golden  apple  be  taken, 

The  world  will  be  overwise. 

Five  links,  a  golden  chain,  are  we, 

Hesper,  the  dragon,  and  sisters  three, 

Bound  about  the  golden  tree. 

III. 
Father  Hesper,  Father  Hesper,  watch,  watch,  night 

and  day, 

Lest  the  old  wound  of  the  world  be  healed, 
The  glory  unsealed, 
The  golden  apple  stolen  away, 
And  the  ancient  secret  revealed. 
Look  from  west  to  east  along: 
Father,  old  Himala  weakens,  Caucasus  is  bold  and 

strong. 

Wandering  waters  unto  wandering  waters  call ; 
Let  them  clash  together,  foam  and  fall. 
Out  of  watchings,  out  of  wiles, 
Comes  the  bliss  of  secret  smiles. 
All  things  are  not  told  to  all. 
Half-round  the  mantling  night  is  drawn, 
Purple  fringed  with  even  and  dawn. 
Hesper  hateth  Phosphor,  evening  hateth  morn. 


EOS  ALIND.  —SONG. —KATE. 


245 


IV. 

Every  flower  and  every  fruit  the  redolent  breath 

Of  this  warm  sea  wind  ripeneth, 

Arching  the  billow  in  his  sleep ; 

But  the  land  wind  wandereth, 

Broken  by  the  highland-steep, 

Two  streams  upon  the  violet  deep; 

For  the  western  sun  and  the  western  star, 

And  the  low  west  wind,  breathing  afar, 

The  end  of  day  and  beginning  of  night 

Make  the  apple  holy  and  bright; 

Holy  and  bright,  round  and  full,  bright  and  blest, 

Mellowed  in  a  land  of  rest; 

Watch  it  warily  day  and  night; 

All  good  things  are  in  the  west. 

Till  mid  noon  the  cool  east  light 

Is  shut  out  by  the  tall  hillbrow; 

But  when  the  fullfaced  sunset  yellowly 

Stays  on  the  flowering  arch  of  the  bough, 

The  luscious  fruitage  clustereth  mellowly, 

Goldenkernelled,  goldencored, 

Sunset-ripened  above  on  the  tree. 

The  world  is  wasted  with  fire  and  sword, 

But  the  apple  of  gold  hangs  over  the  sea. 

Five  links,  a  golden  chain  are  we, 

Hesper,  the  dragon,  and  sisters  three, 

Daughters  three, 

Bound  about 

The  gnarled  bole  of  the  charmed  tree. 

The  golden  apple,  the  golden  apple,  the  hallowed 

fruit, 

Guard  it  well,  guard  it  warily, 
Watch  it  warily, 
Singing  airily, 
Standing  about  the  charmed  root 


ROSALIND. 
I. 

MY  Rosalind,  my  Rosalind, 

My  frolic  falcon,  with  bright  eyes, 

Whose  free  delight,  from  any  height  of  rapid  flight, 

Stoops  at  all  game  that  wing  the  skies, 

My  Rosalind,  my  Rosalind, 

My  bright-eyed,  wild-eyed  falcon,  whither, 

Careless  both  of  wind  and  weather, 

Whither  fly  ye,  what  game  spy  ye, 

Up  or  down  the  streaming  wind? 

II. 

The  quick  lark's  closest-carolled  strains, 

The  shadow  rushing  up  the  sea, 

The  lighting  flash  atween  the  rains, 

The  sunlight  driving  down  the  lea, 

The  leaping  stream,  the  very  wind, 

That  will  not  stay,  upon  his  way, 

To  stoop  the  cowslip  to  the  plains, 

Is  not  so  clear  and  bold  and  free 

As  you,  my  falcon  Rosalind. 

You  care  not  for  another's  pains, 

Because  you  are  the  soul  of  joy, 

Bright  metal  all  without  alloy. 

Life  shoots  and  glances  thro'  your  veins, 

And  flashes  off  a  thousand  ways, 

Through  lips  and  eyes  in  subtle  rays. 

Your  hawkeyes  are  keen  and  bright, 

Keen  with  triumph,  watching  still 

To  pierce  me  through  with  pointed  light; 

But  oftentimes  they  flash  and  glitter 

Like  sunshine  on  a  dancing  rill, 

And  your  words  are  seeming-bitter, 

Sharp  and  few,  but  seeming-bitter 

From  excess  of  swift  delight 

III. 

Come  down,  come  home,  my  Rosalind, 
My  gay  yoang  hawk,  my  Rosalind: 


Too  long  you  keep  the  upper  skies; 

Too  long  you  roam  and  wheel  at  will; 

But  we  must  hood  your  random  eyes, 

That  care  not  whom  they  kill, 

And  your  cheek,  whose  brilliant  hue 

Is  so  sparkling-fresh  to  view, 

Some  red  heath  flower  in  the  dew, 

Touched  with  sun  rise.    We  must  bind 

And  keep  you  fast,  my  Rosalind, 

Fast,  fast,  my  wild-eyed  Rosalind, 

And  clip  your  wings,  and  make  you  love: 

When  we  have  lured  you  from  above, 

And  that  delight  of  frolic  flight,  by  day  or  night, 

From  uorth  to  south; 

Will  bind  you  fast  in  silken  cords, 

And  kiss  away  the  bitter  words 

From  off  your  rosy  mouth. 


NOTE  TO  ROSALIND. 

Perhaps  the  following  lines  may  be  allowed  to  stand  as  a  separata 
poem  ;  originally  they  made  part  of  the  text,  where  they  were  man- 
ifestly improper. 

MY  Rosalind,  my  Rosalind, 

Bold,  subtle,  careless  Rosalind, 

Is  one  of  those  who  know  no  strife 

Of  inward  woe  or  outward  fear ; 

To  whom  the  slope  and  stream  of  Life, 

The  life  before,  the  life  behind, 

In  the  ear,  from  far  aud  near, 

Chimeth  musically  clear. 

My  falconhearted  Rosalind, 

Fullsailed  before  a  vigorous  wind, 

Is  one  of  those  who  cannot  weep 

For  others'  woes,  but  overleap 

All  the  petty  shocks  and  fears 

That  trouble  life  in  early  years, 

With  a  flash  of  frolic  scorn 

And  keen  delight,  that  never  falls 

Away  from  freshness,  selfupborue 

With  such  gladness  as,  whenever 

The  freshflushing  springtime  calls 

To  the  flooding  waters  cool. 

Young  fishes,  on  an  April  morn, 

Up  and  down  a  rapid  river, 

Leap  the  little  waterfalls 

That  sing  into  the  pebbled  pool. 

My  happy  falcon,  Rosalind, 

Hath  daring  fancies  of  her  own, 

Fresh  as  the  dawn  before  the  day, 

Fresh  as  the  early  seasmell  blown 

Through  vineyards  from  an  inland  bay. 

My  Rosalind,  my  Rosalind, 

Because  no  shadow  on  you  falls, 

Think  you  hearts  are  tennisballs, 

To  play  with,  wanton  Rosalind  ? 


SONG. 

WHO  can  say 

Why  Today 

Tomorrow  will  be  yesterday? 

Who  can  tell 

Why  to  smell 

The  violet,  recalls  the  dewy  prime 

Of  youth  and  buried  time  ? 

The  cause  is  nowhere  found  in  rhyme. 


KATE. 

I  KNOW  her  by  her  angry  air, 

Her  bright  black  eyes,  her  bright  black  hair, 

Her  rapid  laughters  wild  and  shrill, 
As  laughters  of  the  woodpecker 


24G 


SONNETS.^O  DARLING  ROOM.— TO  C.  NORTH. 


From  the  bosom  of  a  hill. 
'Tis  Kate— she  eayeth  what  she  will: 
For  Kate  hath  ail  unbridled  tongue, 
Clear  as  the  twanging  of  a  harp. 

Her  heart  is  like  a  throbbing  star. 
Kate  hath  a  spirit  ever  strung 
Like  a  new  bow,  and  bright  and  sharp 

As  edges  of  the  seymetar. 
Whence  shall  she  take  a  fitting  mate? 

For  Kate  no  common  love  will  feel; 
My  woman-soldier,  gallant  Kate, 

As  pure  and  true  as  blades  of  steel. 


Kate  saith  "  the  world  is  void  of  might" 
Kate  saith  "the  men  are  gilded  flies." 
Kate  snaps  her  fingers  at  my  vows; 
Kate  will  not  hear  of  lovers'  sighs. 
I  would  I  were  an  armed  knight, 
Far  famed  for  wellwon  enterprise, 

And  wearing  on  my  swarthy  brows 
The  barland  of  new-wreathed  emprise ; 

For  in  a  moment  I  would  pierce 
The  blackest  files  of  clanging  fight, 
And  strongly  strike  to  left  and  right, 
In  dreaming  of  my  lady's  eyes. 

Oh !  Kate  loves  well  the  bold  and  fierce ; 
But  none  are  bold  enough  for  Kate, 
She  cannot  find  a  fitting  mate. 


SONNET 

WRITTEN   ON  HEARING   OF   THE   OUTBREAK   OF  TEE 
POLISH   INSURRECTION. 

BLOW  ye  the  trumpet,  gather  from  afar 
The  hosts  to  battle :  be  not  bought  and  sold. 
Arise,  brave  Poles,  the  boldest  of  the  bold ; 
Break  through  your  iron  shackles— fling  them  far. 
O  for  those  days  of  Piast,  ere  the  Czar 
Grew  to  his  strength  among  his  deserts  cold; 
When  even  to  Moscow's  cupolas  were  rolled 
The  growing  murmurs  of  the  Polish  war ! 
Now  must  your  noble  anger  blaze  out  more 
Than  when  from  Sobieski,  clan  by  clan, 
The  Moslem  myriads  fell,  and  fled  before — 
Than  when  Zamoysky  smote  the  Tatar  Khan ; 
Than  earlier,  when  on  the  Baltic  shore 
Boleslas  drove  the  Pomeranian. 


SONNET 

ON   THE  RESULT   OF   THE   LATE  RUSSIAN    INVASION 
OF   POLAND. 

How  long,  O  God,  shall  men  be  ridden  down, 
And  trampled  under  by  the  last  and  least 
Of  men  ?    The  heart  of  Poland  hath  not  ceased 
To  quiver,  though  her  sacred  blood  doth  drown 
The  fields ;  and  out  of  every  mouldering  town 
Cries  to  Thee,  lest  brute  Power  be  increased, 
Till  that  o'ergrown  Barbarian  in  the  East 
Transgress  his  ample  bound  to  some  new  crown :  — 
Cries  to  Thee,  "Lord,  how  long  shall  these  things  be? 


How  long  shall  the  icy-hearted  Muscovite 
Oppress  the  region  ?"    Us,  O  Just  and  Good, 
Forgive,  who  smiled  when  she  was  torn  in  three ; 
Us,  who  stand  now,  wheu  we  should  aid  the  right  — 
A  matter  to  be  wept  with  tears  of  blood ! 


SONNET. 

As  when  with  downcast  eyes  we  muse  and  brood, 

And  ebb  into  a  former  life,  or  seem 

To  lapse  far  back  in  a  confused  dream 

To  states  of  mystical  similitude  ; 

If  one  but  speaks  or  hems  or  stirs  his  chair, 

Ever  the  wonder  waxeth  more  and  more, 

So  that  we  say,  "All  this  hath  been  before, 

All  this  hath  been,  1  know  not  when  or  where." 

So,  friend,  when  first  I  looked  upon  your  face, 

Our  thought  gave  answer,  each  to  each,  so  true, 

Opposed  mirrors  each  reflecting  each  — 

Altho'  I  knew  not  in  what  time  or  place, 

Methought  that  I  had  often  met  with  you, 

And  each  had  lived  in  the  other's  mind  and  speech 


O  DARLING  ROOM. 

I. 

O  DARLING  room,  my  heart's  delight 
Dear  room,  the  apple  of  my  sight, 
With  thy  two  couches  soft  and  white, 
There  is  no  room  so  exquisite, 
No  little  room  so  warm  and  bright, 
Wherein  to  read,  wherein  to  write. 

II. 

For  I  the  Nonneuwerth  have  seen, 
And  Oberwinter's  vineyards  green. 
Musical  Lurlei :  and  between 
The  hills  to  Biugeu  have  I  been, 
Biugeu  in  Darmstadt,  where  the  Rhene 
Curves  toward  Mentz,  a  woody  scene. 

III. 

Yet  never  did  there  meet  my  sight, 

In  any  town  to  left  or  right, 

A  little  room  so  exquisite, 

With  two  such  couches,  soft  and  white? 

Not  any  room  so  warm  and  bright, 

Wherein  to  read,  wherein  to  write. 


TO  CHRISTOPHER  NORTH. 

You  flid  late  review  my  lays, 

Crusty  Christopher; 
You  did  mingle  blame  and  praise, 

Rusty  Christopher. 
MThen  I  learnt  from  whom  it  cams. 
I  forgave  yon  all  the  blame, 

Musty  Christopher; 
I  could  not  forgive  the  praisi, 

Fusty  Chriutophtr. 


ANACREONTICS.— A  FRAGMENT.— SONNETS.— SKIPPING-ROPE. 


247 


OCCASIONAL    POEMS. 


NO  MORE.* 

Oe  sad  Xo  More!  Oh  sweet  JVb  More  I 

Oh  strange  So  More! 
By  a  mossed  brookbank  on  a  stone 
I  smelt  a  wildweed  flower  alone ; 
There  was  a  ringing  in  my  ears, 
And  both  my  eyes  gushed  out  with  tears. 
Surely  all  pleasant  things  had  gone  before, 
Lowburied  fathom  deep  beneath  with  thee,No  MORE! 


ANACREONTICS. 

WITH  roses  muskybreathed, 
And  drooping  daffodilly, 
And  silverleaved  lily, 
And  ivy  darkly-wreathed, 
I  wove  a  crown  before  her, 
For  her  1  love  so  dearly, 
A  gariand  for  Lenora, 
With  a  silken  cord  I  bound  it. 
Lenora,  laughing  clearly 
A  light  and  thrilling  laughter, 
About  her  forehead  wound  it, 
And  loved  me  ever  after. 


A  FRAGMENT. 

WHERE  is  the  Giant  of  the  Sun,  which  stood 
In  the  midnoon  the  glory  of  old  Rhodes, 
A  perfect  Idol  with  profulgent  brows 
Farsheening  down  the  purple  seas  to  those 
Who  sailed  from  Mizraim  underneath  the  star 
Named  of  the  Dragon — and  between  whose  limbs 
Of  brassy  vastuess  broadblown  Argosies 
Drave  into  haven  ?    Yet  endure  unscathed 
Of  changeful  cycles  the  great  Pyramids 
Broadbased  amid  the  fleeting  sands,  and  sloped 
Into  the  slumbrous  summer  noon;  but  where, 
Mysterious  Egypt,  are  thine  obelisks 
Graven  with  gorgeous  emblems  undiscerned  ? 
Thy  placid  Sphinxes  brooding  o'er  the  Nile? 
Thy  shadowing  Idols  in  the  solitudes, 
Awful  Memnonian  countenances  calm 
Looking  athwart  the  burning  flats,  far  off 
S«en  by  the  highnecked  camel  on  the  verge 
Journeying  southward  ?    Where  are  thy  monuments 
Piled  by  the  strong  and  sunborn  Anakim 
Over  their  crowned  brethren  On  and  OPII? 
Thy  Memnon  when  his  peaceful  lips  are  kist 
With  earliest  rays,  that  from  his  mother's  eye? 
Flow  over  the  Arabian  bay,  no  more 
Breathes  low  into  the  charmed  ears  of  morn 
Clear  melody  flattering  the  crisped  Nile         [down : 
By   columned   Thebes.       Old   Memphis   hath   gone 
The  Pharoahs  are  no  more:   somewhere  in  death 
They  sleep  with  staring  eyes  and  gilded  lips, 
Wrapped  round  with  spiced  cerements  in  old  grots 
Rockhewn  and  sealed  for  ever. 

*  This  and  the  two  following  poems  are  from  the  Gem,  a  literary 
annual  for  1831. 


SONNET.* 

ME  my  own  fate  to  lasting  sorrow  doometh. 

Thy  woes  are  birds  of  passage,  transitory : 

Thy  spirit,  circled  with  a  living  glory, 
In  summer  still  a  summer  joy  resumeth. 
Alone  my  hopeless  melancholy  gloometh, 

Like  a  lone  cypress,  through  the  twilight  hoary, 
From  an  old  garden  where  no  flower  bloometh, 

One  cypress  on  an  island  promontory. 
But  yet  my  lonely  spirit  follows  thine, 

As  round  the  rolling  earth  night  follows  day: 
But  yet  thy  lights  on  my  horizon  shine 

Into  my  night,  when  thou  art  far  away 
I  am  so  dark,  alas '.  and  thou  so  bright, 
When  we  two  meet  there's  never  perfect  light 


SONNET.* 

CHECK  every  ontflash,  every  ruder  sally 
Of  thought  and  speech;  speak  low  and  give  up 
wholly 

Thy  spirit  to  mild-minded  melancholy; 

This  is  the  place.    Through  yonder  poplar  valley 
Below  the  blue-green  river  windeth  slowly ; 

But  in  the  mfddle  of  the  sombre  valley 

The  crisped  waters  whisper  musically, 
And  all  the  haunted  place  is  dark  and  holy. 

The  nightingale,  with  long  and  low  preamble, 
Warbled  from  yonder  knoll  of  solemn  larches, 
And  in  and  out  the  woodbine's  flowery  arches 

The  summer  midges  wove  their  wanton  gambol 
And  all  the  white-stemmed  pinewood  slept  above— 
When  in  this  valley  first  I  told  my  love. 


THE  SKIPPING-ROPE. t 

SUBE  never  yet  was  Antelope 

Could  skip  so  lightly  by. 
Stand  off,  or  else  my  skipping-rope 

Will  hit  you  in  the  eye. 
How  lightly  whirls  the  skipping-rope! 

How  fairy-like  you  fly ! 
Go,  get  you  gone,  you  muse  and  mope — 

I  hate  that  sflly  sigh. 
Nay,  dearest,  teach  me  how  to  hope, 

Or  tell  me  how  to  die. 
There,  take  it,  take  my  skipping-rope, 

And  hang  yourself  thereby. 


THE  NEW  TIMON  AND  THE  POETS, 

WE  know  him,  out  of  Shakspeare's  art, 
And  those  fine  curses  which  he  spoke ; 

The  old  Timon,  with  his  noble  heart,- 
That,  strongly  loathing,  greatly  broke. 


*  Friendship's  Offering,  1833. 

t  Omitted  from  the  edition  of  1849. 

J  Published  in  Punch,  Feb.  1S46,  signed  "  Alcibiades." 


248         NEW  TIMOK—  AFTER-THOUGHT.—  BKI TONS,  GUARD  YOUR  OWN. 


So  died  the  Old:  here  comes  the  New. 

Regard  him:  a  familiar  face: 
I  thought  we  knew  him :  What,  it's  yon, 

The  padded  man  —  that  wears  the  stays  — 

Who  killed  the  girls  and  thrilled  the  boys 
With  dandy  pathos  when  you  wrote! 

A  Lion,  you,  that  made  a  noise, 
And  shook  a  mane  en  papillotes. 

And  once  you  tried  the  Muses  too; 

Yon  failed,  Sir:  therefore  now  you  turn, 
To  fall  on  those  who  are  to  you 

As  Captain  is  to  Subaltern. 

But  men  of  long-enduring  hopes, 
And  careless  what  this  hour  may  bring, 

Can  pardon  little  would-be  POPES 
And  BBUMMELS,  when  they  try  to  sting. 

An  Artist,  Sir,  should  rest  in  Art, 
And  wave  a  little  of  his  claim ; 

To  have  the  deep  Poetic  heart 
Is  more  than  all  poetic  fame. 

But  you,  Sir,  yon  are  hard  to  please; 

Ton  never  look  but  half  content: 
Nor  like  a  gentleman  at  ease, 

With  moral  breadth  of  temperament. 

And  what  with  spites  and  what  with  fears, 

Ton  can  not  let  a  body  be: 
It's  always  ringing  in  your  ears, 

"They  call  this  man  as  good  as  me." 

What  profits  now  to  understand 
The  merits  of  a  spotless  shirt — 

A  dapper  boot  — a  little  hand  — 
If  half  the  little  soul  is  dirt? 

You  talk  of  tinsel !  why,  we  see 

The  old  mark  of  rouge  upon  your  cheeks. 
You  prate  of  Nature  !  you  are  he 

That  spilt  his  life  about  the  cliques. 

A  TIMON  you !    Nay,  nay,  for  shame  : 

It  looks  too  arrogant  a  jest— 
The  fierce  old  man — to  take  his  name, 

Ton  bandbox.    Off,  and  let  him  rest. 


AFTER-THOUGHT.* 

An,  God  !  the  petty  fools  of  rhyme, 
That  shriek  and  sweat  in  pigmy  wars 

Before  the  stony  face  of  Time, 
And  look'd  at  by  the  silent  stare;— 

That  hate  each  other  for  a  song, 
And  do  their  little  best  to  bite, 

That  pinch  their  brothers  in  the  throng, 
And  scratch  the  very  dead  for  spite ; — 

And  strive  to  make  an  inch  of  room 
For  their  sweet  selves,  and  can  not  hear 

The  sullen  Lethe  rolling  down 
On  them  and  theirs,  and  all  things  here  ;- 

When  one  small  touch  of  Charity 
Could  lift  them  nearer  Godlike  State, 

Than  if  the  crowded  Orb  should  cry 
Like  those  that  cried  DIANA  great. 

And  /  too  talk,  and  lose  the  tonch 

I  talk  of.    Surely,  after  all, 
The  noblest  answer  nnto  such 

Is  kindly  silence  when  they  bawl. 


1  Eunch.  March  7, 1846,  signed  "  Atcibiade 


STANZAS.* 

WHAT  time  I  wasted  youthful  hours, 

One  of  the  shining  winged  powers, 

Show'd  me  vast  cliffs  with  crown  of  towers. 

As  towards  the  gracious  light  I  bow'd, 
They  seem'd  high  palaces  and  proud, 
Hid  now  and  then  with  sliding  cloud. 

He  said,  "  The  labor  is  not  small ; 
Yet  winds  the  pathway  free  to  all :  — 
Take  care  thou  dost  not  fear  to  fall  1" 


SONNET 

TO  WILLIAM   CHARLES   MACREADT.t 

FAREWELL,  Macready,  since  to-night  we  part 
Full-handed  thunders  often  have  confest 
Thy  power,  well-used  to  move  the  public  breast. 

We  thank  thee  with  one  voice,  and  from  the  heart 

Farewell,  Macready ;  since  this  night  we  part. 
Go,  take  thine  honors  home :  rank  with  the  best, 
Garrick,  and  statelier  Kemble,  and  the  rest 

Who  made  a  nation  purer  thro'  their  art. 

Thine  is  it,  that  our  Drama  did  not  die, 
Nor  flicker  down  to  brainless  pantomime, 
And  those  gilt  gauds  men-children  swarm  to  see. 

Farewell,  Macready ;  moral,  grave,  sublime. 

Our  Shakspeare's  bland  and  universal  eye       [thee. 
Dwells  pleased,  thro'  twice  a  hundred  years,  on 


BRITONS,  GUARD  YOUR  OWN.* 

RISE,  Britons,  rise,  if  manhood  be  not  dead  , 
The  world's  last  tempest  darkens  overhead , 

The  Pope  has  bless'd  him; 

The  Church  caress'd  him; 
He  triumphs ;  may  be  we  shall  stand  alone. 

Britons,  guard  your  own. 

His  ruthless  host  is  bought  with  plunder'd  gold, 
By  lying  priests  the  peasants'  votes  controll'd. 

All  freedom  vanish'd, 

The  true  men  banish'd, 
He  triumphs ;  may  be  we  shall  stand  alone. 

Britons,  guard  your  own. 

Peace-lovers  we— sweet  Peace  we  all  desire  — 
Peace-lovers  we — but  who  can  trust  a  liar?  — 

Peace-lovers,  haters 

Of  shameless  traitors, 
We  hate  not  France,  but  this  man's  heart  of  ston« 

Britons,  guard  your  own. 

We  hate  not  France,  but  France  has  lost  her  voice. 
This  man  is  France,  the  man  they  call  her  choice. 

By  tricks  and  spying, 

By  craft  and  lying, 
And  murder  was  her  freedom  overthrown. 

Britons,  guard  your  own. 

"  Vive  PEmperenr"  may  follow  bye  and  bye ; 
"  God  save  the  Queen"  is  here  a  truer  cry. 

God  save  the  Nation, 

The  toleration, 
And  the  free  speech  that  makes  a  Briton  known. 

Britons,  guard  your  own. 

Rome's  dearest  daughter  now  is  captive  France, 
The  Jesuit  laughs,  and  reckoning  on  his  chance, 

*  The  Keepsake,  1851. 

t  Read  by  Mr.  John  Forster  at  a  dinner  given  to  Mr.  Macreadj 
March  1,  1851,  on  his  retirement  from  the  stage, 
j      J  The  Examiner,  1852. 


THE  THIRD  OF  FEBRUARY,  1852.— HANDS  ALL  ROUND. 


249 


Would  unrelenting, 
Kill  all  dissenting, 

Till  we  were  left  to  fight  for  truth  alone. 
Britons,  guard  your  own. 

Call-home  your  ships  across  Biscayan  tides, 
To  blow  the  battle  from  their  oakeu  sides. 

Why  waste  they  yonder 

Their  idle  thunder? 
Why  stay  they  there  to  guard  a  foreign  throne? 

Seamen,  guard  your  own. 

\Ve  were  the  best  of  marksmen  long  ago, 

We  won  old  battles  with  our  strength,  the  bow. 

Now  practice,  yeomen, 

Like  those  bowmen, 
Till  your  balls  fly  as  their  shafts  have  flown. 

Yeomen,  guard  your  own. 

His  soldier-ridden  Highness  might  incline 
To  take  Sardinia,  Belgium,  or  the  Khine: 

Shall  we  stand  idle, 

Nor  seek  to  bridle 
His  rude  aggressions,  till  we  stand  alone? 

Make  their  cause  your  own. 

Should  he  land  here,  and  for  one  hour  prevail, 
There  must  no  man  go  back  to  bear  the  tale: 

No  man  to  bear  it — 

Swear  it !  we  swear  it ! 
Although  we  fight  the  banded  world  alone, 

We  swear  to  guard  our  own. 


THE  THIRD  OF  FEBRUARY,  1852.* 

MY  lords,  we  heard  you  speak ;  you  told  us  all 
That  England's  honest  censure  went  too  far; 

That  our  free  press  should  cease  to  brawl, 
Not  eting  the  fiery  Frenchman  into  war. 

It  was  an  ancient  privilege,  my  lords, 

To  fling  whate'er  we  felt,  not  fearing,  into  words. 

We  love  not  this  French  God,  this  child  of  Hell, 
Wild  War,  who  breaks  the  converse  of  the  wise ; 

But  though  we  love  kind  Peace  so  well, 
We  dare  not,  e'en  by  silence,  sanction  lies. 

It  might  safe  be  our  censures  to  withdraw; 

And  yet,  my  lords,  not  well ;  there  is  a  higher  law. 

As  long  as  we  remain,  we  must  speak  free, 
Though  all  the  storm  of  Europe  on  us  break ; 

No  little  German  state  are  we, 
But  the  one  voice  in  Europe  •,  we  must  speak ; 

That  if  to-night  our  greatness  were  struck  dead, 

There  might  remain  some  record  of  the  things  we 
•aid. 

If  you  be  fearful,  then  must  we  be  bold. 

Our  Britain  can  not  salve  a  tyrant  o'er. 
Better  the  waste  Atlantic  rolPd 

On  her  and  us  and  ours  fovevermore. 
What !  have  we  fought  for  freedom  from  our  prime, 
At  last  to  dodge  and  palter  with  a  public  crime  ? 

Shall  we  fear  him?  our  own  we  never  feared. 

From  our  first  Charles  by  force  we  wrung  our 

claims, 
Prick'd  by  the  Papal  spur,  we  rear'd, 

And  flung  the  burthen  of  the  second  James. 
I  say  we  never  fear'd  !  and  as  for  these,  [seas. 

We  broke  them  on  the  land,  we  drove  them  on  the 

And  you,  my  lords,  you  make  the  people  muse, 
In  doubt  if  you  be  of  our  Barons'  breed- 


Were  those  your  sires  who  fought  at  Lewes  ? 

Is  this  the  manly  strain  of  Runnymede  ? 
O  fall'n  nobility,  that,  overawed, 
Would  lisp  in  honey'd  whispers  of  this  monstrous 
fraud. 

We  feel,  at  least,  that  silence  here  were  sin. 

Not  ours  the  fault  if  we  have  feeble  hosts — 
If  easy  patrons  of  their  kin 

Have  left  the  last  free  race  with  naked  coasts ! 
They  knew  the  precious  things  they  had  to  guard  : 
For  us,  we  will  not  spare  the  tyrant  one  hard  word. 

Though  niggard  throats  of  Manchester  may  bawl, 
What  England  was,  shall  her  true  sons  forget? 

We  are  not  cotton-spinners  all, 
But  some  love  England,  and  her  honor  yet. 

And  these  in  our  Thermopylae  shall  stand, 

And  hold  against  the  world  the  honor  of  the  land. 


HANDS  ALL  ROUND.* 

FntsT  drink  a  health,  this  solemn  night, 

A  health  to  England,  every  guest ; 
That  man's  the  best  cosmopolite 

Who  loves  his  native  country  best 
May  Freedom's  oak  for  ever  live 

With  stronger  life  from  day  to  day; 
That  man's  the  best  Conservative 

Who  lops  the  mouldered  branch  away. 
Hands  all  round! 

God  the  tyrant's  hope  confound  ! 
To  this  great  cause  of  Freedom  drink,  my  friends, 

And  the  great  name  of  England,  round  and  round. 

A  health  to  Europe's  honest  men ! 

Heaven  guard  them  from  her  tyrants'  jails  I 
From  wronged  Poerio's  noisome  den, 

From  ironed  limbs  and  tortured  nails ! 
We  curse  the  crimes  of  southern  kings, 

The  Russian  whips  and  Austrian  rods — 
We  likewise  have  our  evil  things; 

Too  much  we  make  our  Ledgers,  Gods. 
Yet  hands  all  round  ! 

God  the  tyrant's  cause  confound ! 
To  Europe's  better  health  we  drink,  my  friends, 

And  the  great  name  of  England,  round  and  round! 


*  The  Examiner,  1852,  and  signed  "  Merlin 


What  health  to  France,  if  France  be  she, 

Whom  martial  progress  only  charms? 
Yet  tell  her — better  to  be  free 

Than  vanquish  all  the  world  in  arms. 
Her  frantic  city's  flashing  heats 

But  fire,  to  blast,  the  hopes  of  men. 
Why  chauge  the  titles  of  your  streets  ? 

You  fools,  you'll  want  them  all  again. 
Hands  all  round ! 

God  the  tyrant's  cause  confound! 
To  France,  the  wiser  France,  we  drink,  my  friends, 

And  the  great  name  of  England,  round  and  round. 

Gigantic  daughter  of  the  West, 

We  drink  to  thee  across  the  flood, 
We  know  thee  and  we  love  thee  best, 

For  art  thou  not  of  British  blood  ? 
Should  war's  mad  blast  again  be  blown, 

Permit  not  thou  the  tyrant  powers 
To  fight  thy  mother  here  alone, 

But  let  thy  broadsides  roar  with  ours. 
'Hands  all  round! 

God  the  tyrant's  cause  confound! 
To  our  dear  kinsmen  of  the  West,  my  friends, 

And  the  great  name  of  England,  round  aud  round. 

O  rise,  our  strong  Atlantic  sons, 
When  war  against  our  freedom  springs! 


250 


THE  WAR.— 1865-1866.— ON  A  SPITEFUL  LETTER. 


O  speak  to  Europe  through  your  guns ! 

They  can  be  understood  by  kings. 
You  must  not  mix  our  Queen  with  those 

That  wish  to  keep  their  people  fools ; 
Our  freedom's  foemen  are  her  foes, 

She  comprehends  the  race  she  rules. 
Hands  all  round  ! 

God  the  tyrant's  cause  confound  1 
To  our  dear  kinsman  in  the  West,  my  friends, 

And  the  great  name  of  England,  round  and  round. 


THE  WAR* 

THEBE  is  a  sound  of  thunder  afar, 

Storm  in  the  South  that  darkens  the  day, 
Storm  of  battle  and  thunder  of  war, 
Well,  if  it  do  not  roll  our  way. 
Form  !  form !  Riflemen  form  ! 
Ready,  be  ready  to  meet  the  storm  1 
Riflemen,  riflemen,  riflemen  form  1 

Be  not  deaf  to  the  sound  that  warns ! 

Be  not  gull'd  by  a  despot's  plea! 
Are  figs  of  thistles,  or  grapes  of  thorns  1 
How  should  a  despot  set  men  free? 
Form  !  form !  Riflemen  form  ! 
Ready,  be  ready  to  meet  the  storm ! 
Riflemen,  riflemen,  riflemen  form  1 

Let  your  Reforms  for  a  moment  go, 

Look  to  your  butts  and  take  good  aims. 
Better  a  rotten  borough  or  so, 
Than  a  rotten  fleet  or  a  city  in  flames! 
Form  !  form  !  Riflemen  form  ! 
Ready,  be  ready  to  meet  the  storm  1 
Riflemen,  riflemen,  riflemen  form! 

Form,  be  ready  to  do  or  die ! 

Form  in  Freedom's  name  and  the  Q.ueen's ! 
True,  that  we  have  a  faithful  ally, 
But  only  the  Devil  knows  what  he  meaus. 
Form  !  form  !  Riflemen  form  ! 
Ready,  be  ready  to  meet  the  storm ! 
Riflemen,  riflemen,  riflemen  form  ! 

T. 


*  London  Times,  May  9, 1859. 


1865-18(56.* 

I  STOOD  on  a  tower  in  the  wet, 

And  New  Year  and  Old  Year  met, 

And  winds  were  roaring  and  blowing ; 

And  I  said,  "O  years  that  meet  in  tears, 

Have  ye  aught  that  is  worth  the  knowing? 

Science  enough  and  exploring, 

Wanderers  coming  and  going, 

Matter  enough  for  deploring, 

But  aught  that  is  worth  the  knowing?" 

Seas  at  my  feet  were  flowing, 

Waves  on  the  shingle  pouring, 

Old  Year  roaring  and  blowing, 

And  New  Year  blowing  and  roaring. 


ON  A  SPITEFUL  LETTER,  t 

HEBE,  it  is  here  —  the  close  of  the  year, 

And  with  it  a  spiteful  letter. 
My  fame  in  song  has  done  him  much  wrong, 

For  himself  has  done  much  better. 

0  foolish  bard,  is  your  lot  so  hard, 
If  men  neglect  your  pages? 

1  think  not  much  of  yours  or  of  mine: 
I  hear  the  roll  of  the  ages. 

This  fallen  leaf,  isn't  fame  as  brief? 

My  rhymes  may  have  been  the  stronger.. 
Yet  hate  me  not,  but  abide  your  lot ; 

I  last  but  a  moment  longer. 

O  faded  leaf,  isn't  fame  as  brief? 

What  room  is  here  for  a  hater? 
Yet  the  yellow  leaf  hates  the  greener  leaf, 

For  it  hangs  one  moment  later. 

Greater  than  I — isn't  that  your  cry? 

And  I  shall  live  to  see  it. 
Well,  if  it  be  so,  so  it  is,  you  know ; 

And  if  it  be  so — so  be  it! 

O  summer  leaf,  isn't  life  as  brief? 

But  this  is  the  time  of  hollies. 
And  my  heart,  my  heart  is  an  evergreen : 

I  hate  the  spites  and  the  follies. 


*  "Good  Words,"  March,  1868. 

t  "Once  a  Week,"  January  4,  186». 


THE  WINDOW ;    OR,  THE  SONGS  OF  THE  WRENS. 


251 


THE     WINDOW; 

OK, 

THE     SON  OS    OF     THE     WRENS. 

WORDS  WRITTEN  FOR  MUSIC. 
THE  MUSIC  BY  ARTHUR  SULLIVAN. 


TOUR  years  ago  Mr.  Sullivan  requested  me  to  write  a  little  song-cycle,  German  fashion,  for 
him  to  exercise  his  art  upon.  He  had  been  very  successful  in  setting  such  old  songs  as  "  Orpheus 
with  his  lute,"  and  I  drest  up  for  him,  partly  in  the  old  style,  a  puppet  whose  almost  only  merit  is, 
perhaps,  that  it  can  dance  to  Mr.  Sullivan's  instrument.  I  am  sorry  that  my  four-year-old  puppet 
should  have  to  dance  at  all  in  the  dark  shadow  of  these  days  j  but  the  music  is  now  completed, 
and  I  am  bound  by  my  promise. 

A.  TENNYSON. 

December,  1870. 


ON  THE  HILL. 

THE  lights  and  shadows  fly! 
Yonder  it  brightens  and  darkens  down  on  the  plain. 

A  jewel,  a  jewel  dear  to  a  lover's  eye! 
O  is  it  the  brook,  or  a  pool,  or  her  window-pane, 
When  the  winds  are  up  in  the  morning? 

Clouds  that  are  racing  above, 
And  winds  and  lights  and  shadows  that  cannot  be 

still, 

All  running  on  one  way  to  the  home  of  my  love, 
You  are  all  running  on,  and  I  stand  on  the  slope  of 

the  hill, 
And  the  winds  are  up  in  the  morning! 

Follow,  follow  the  chase ! 
And  my  thoughts  are  as  quick  and  as  quick,  ever  on, 

on,  on. 

O  lights,  are  you  flying  over  her  sweet  little  face  ? 
And  my  heart  is  there  before  you  are  come  and  gone, 
When  the  winds  are  up  in  the  morning! 

Follow  them  down  the  slope! 
And  I  follow  them  down  to  the  window-pane  of  my 

dear, 
And  it  brightens  and  darkens  and  brightens  like 

my  hope, 
And  it  darkens  and  brightens  and  darkens  like  my 

fear, 
And  the  winds  are  up  in  the  morning. 


II. 
AT  THE  WINDOW. 

VINE,  vine  and  eglantine, 
Clasp  her  window,  trail  and  twine ! 
Rose,  rose  and  clematis, 
Trail  and  twine  and  clasp  and  kiss, 
Kiss,  kiss ;  and  make  her  a  bower 
All  of  flowers,  and  drop  me  a  flower, 
Drop  me  a  flower. 


Vine,  vine  and  eglantine, 
Cannot  a  flower,  a  flower,  be  mine  ? 
Rose,  rose  and  clematis, 
Drop  me  &  flower,  a  flower,  to  kiss, 
Kiss,  kiss — And  out  of  her  bower 
All  of  flowers,  a' flower,  a  flower, 
Dropt,  a  flower. 


III. 
GONE ! 

GONE! 

Gone  till  the  end  of  the  year, 

Gone,  and  the  light  gone  with  her  and  left  me  in 

shadow  here! 
Gone — flitted  away, 
Taken  the  stars  from  the  night  and  the  sun  from 

the  day! 
Gone,  and  a  cloud  in  my  heart,  and  a  storm  in  the 

air! 
Flown  to  the  east  or  the  west,  flitted  I  know  not 

where ! 
Down  in  the  south  is  a  flash  and  a  groan:  she  is 

there!  she  is  there! 


IV. 
WINTER. 

THE  frost  is  here, 

And  fuel  is  dear 

And  woods  are  sear, 

And  fires  burn  clear, 

And  frost  is  here 

And  has  bitten  the  heel  of  the  going  year. 

Bite,  frost,  bite ! 

You  roll  up  away  from  the  light 

The  blue  woodlouse,  and  the  plump  dormouse, 

And  the  bees  are  still'd,  and  the  flies  are  kill'd, 

And  you  bite  far  into  the  heart  of  the  house, 

But  not  into  mine. 


252 


THE  WINDOW;   OR,  THE  SONGS  OF  THE  WRENS. 


"  Go,  little  letter,  apace,  apace. 


THE  WINDOW ;    OR,  THE  SOXGS  OF  THE  WRENS. 


253 


Bite,  frost,  bite ! 

The  woods  are  all  the  searei, 

The  fuel  is  all  the  dearer, 

The  fires  are  all  the  clearer, 

My  spring  is  all  the  nearer, 

You  have  bitten  into  the  heart  of  the  earth, 

But  not  into  mine. 


V. 
SPRING. 

BIR-DS'  love  and  birds'  song 

Flying  here  and  there, 
Birds'  song  and  birds'  love, 

And  you  with  gold  for  hair! 
Birds'  song  and  birds'  love, 

Passing  with  the  weather, 
Men's  song  and  men's  love, 

To  love  once  and  for  ever. 

Men's  love  and  birds'  love, 

And  women's  love  and  men's! 
And  you  my  wren  with  a  crown  of  gold, 

You  my  Queen  of  the  wrens! 
You  the  Queen  of  the  wrens — 

We'll  be  birds  of  a  feather, 
I'll  be  King  'of  the  Queen  of  the  wrens, 

And  all  in  a  nest  together. 


VI. 
THE  LETTER. 

WHBRE  is  another  sweet  as  my  sweet, 
Fine  of  the  fine,  and  shy  of  the  shy  ? 

Fine  little  hands,  fine  little  feet- 
Dewy  blue  eye. 

Shall  I  write  to  her?  shall  I  go? 
Ask  her  to  marry  me  by  and  by? 

Somebody  said  that  she'd  say  no ; 
Somebody  knows  that  she'll  say  ay! 

Ay  or  no,  if  ask'd  to  her  face  ? 

Ay  or  no,  from  shy  of  the  shy  ? 
Go,  little  letter,  apace,  apace, 

Fly! 
Fly  to  the  light  in  the  valley  below — 

Tell  my  wish  to  her  dewy  blue  eye : 
Somebody  said  that  she'd  say  no ; 

Somebody  knows  that  she'll  say  ay ! 


VIL 
NO  ANSWER. 

THE  mist  and  the  rain,  the  mist  and  the  rain ! 

Is  it  ay  or  no  ?  is  it  ay  or  no  ? 
And  never  a  glimpse  of  her  window-pane! 

And  I  may  die  but  the  grass  will  grow, 
And  the  grass  will  grow  when  I  am  gone, 
And  the  wet  west  wind  and  the  world  will  go  on. 

Ay  is  the  song  of  the  wedded  spheres, 
No  is  trouble  and  cloud  and  storm, 

Ay  is  life  for  a  hundred  years, 
No  will  push  me  down  to  the  worm, 

And  when  I  am  there  and  dead  and  gone, 

The  wet  west  wind  and  the  world  will  go  on. 


The  wind  and  the  wet,  the  wind  and  the  wet ! 

Wet  west  wind,  how  you  blow,  you  blow! 
And  never  a  line  from  my  lady  yet! 

Is  it  ay  or  no  ?  is  it  ay  or  no  ? 
Blow  then,  blow,  and  when  I  am  gone, 
The  wet  west  wind  and  the  world  may  go  on. 


VIIL 
NO  ANSWER. 

WINDS  are  loud  and  you  are  dumb: 
Take  my  love,  for  love  will  come, 

Love  will  come  but  once  a  life. 
Winds  are  loud  and  winds  will  pass! 
Spring  is  here  with  leaf  and  grass: 

Take  my  love  and  be  my  wife. 
After-loves  of  maids  and  men 
Are  but  dainties  drest  again: 
Love  me  now,  you'll  love  me  then: 

Love  can  love  but  ouce  a  life. 


IX. 
THE  ANSWER. 

Two  little  hands  that  meet, 
Claspt  on  her  seal,  my  sweet ! 
Must  I  take  yon  and  break  you, 
Two  little  hands  that  meet? 
I  must  take  you,  and  break  you, 
And  loving  hands  must  part — 
Take,  take— break,  break- 
Break — you  may  break  my  heart. 
'Faint  heart  never  won — 
Break,  break,  and  all's  done. 


AY! 

BE  merry,  all  birds,  to-day, 

Be  merry  on  earth  as  you  never  were  merry  before 
Be  merry  in  heaven,  O  larks,  and  far  away, 
And  merry  for  ever  and  ever,  and  one  day  more. 

Why? 
For  it's  easy  to  find  a  rhyme. 


Look,  look,  how  he  flits, 
The  fire-crown'd  king  of  the  wrens,  from  out  of 

the  pine! 
Look  how  they  tumble  the  blossom,  the  mad  little 

tits! 
"  Cuck-oo  !  Cnck-oo  !"  was  ever  a  May  so  fine  ? 

Why? 
For  it's  easy  to  find  a  rhyme. 

0  merry  the  linnet  and  dove, 
And  swallow  and  sparrow  and  throstle,  and  have 

your  desire! 

O  merry  my  heart,  you  have  gotten  the  wings  of  love, 
And  flit  like  the  king  of  the  wrens  with  a  crown 
of  fire. 

Why  ? 
For  it's  ay  ay  ay,  ay  ay. 


254 


THE  WINDOW;    OR,  THE  SONGS  OF  THE  WRENS. 


X. 
WHEN  ? 

Stm  comes,  moon  comes, 

Time  slips  away. 
Sun  sets,  moon  sets, 

LOve,  fix  a  day. 


"A  year  hence,  a  year  hence." 
"We  shall  both  be  gray." 

"A  month  hence,  a  month  hence." 
"Far,  far  away." 


"  A  week  hence,  a  week  hence." 

"Ah,  the  long  delay." 
"Wait  a  little,  wait  a  little, 

You  shall  fix  a  day." 


"  To-morrow,  love,  to-morrow, 
And  that's  an  age  away." 

Blaze  upon  her  window,  sun, 
And  honour  all  the  day. 


XI. 
MARRIAGE  MORNING. 

LianT,  so  low  upon  earth, 

You  send  a  flash  to  the  sun. 
Here  is  the  golden  close  of  love, 

All  my  wooing  is  done. 
O  the  woods  and  the  meadows, 

Woods  where  we  hid  from  the  wet, 
Stiles  where  we  stay'd  to  be  kind, 

Meadows  in  which  we  met! 
Light,  so  low  in  the  vale, 

You  flash  and  lighten  afar: 
For  this  is  the  golden  morning  of  love, 

And  you  are  his  morning  star. 
Flash,  I  am  coming,  I  come, 

By  meadow  and  stile  and  wood : 
O  lighten  into  my  eyes  and  my  heart, 

Into  my  heart  and  my  blood ! 
Heart,  are  you  great  enough 

For  a  love  that  never  tires? 
O  heart,  are  you  great  enough  for  love  ? 

I  have  heard  of  thorns  and  briers. 
Over  the  thorns  and  briers, 

Over  the  meadows  and  stiles, 
Over  the  world  to  the  end  of  it 

Flash  for  a  million  .mites. 


THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT. 


255 


THE    LAST    TOURNAMENT* 


'  Danced  like  a 


d  leaf  before  the  Hall." 


DAGONF.T,  the  fool,  whom  Gawain  in  his  moods 
Had  made  mock-knight  of  Arthur's  Table  Round, 
At  Camelot,  high  above  the  yellowing  woods, 
Danced  like  a  wither'd  leaf  before  the  Hall. 
And  toward  him  from  the  hall,  with  harp  in  hand, 
And  from  the  crown  theseof  a  carcanet 
Of  ruby  swaying  to  and  fro,  the  prize 
Of  Tristram  in  the  jousts  of  yesterday, 
Came  Tristram,  saying,  "Why  skip  ye  so,  Sir  Fool?1' 

For  Arthur  and  Sir  Lancelot  riding  once 
Far  down  beneath  a  winding  wall  of  rock 
Heard  a  child  wail.    A  stump  of  oak  half-dead, 
From  roots  like  some  black  coil  of  can-en  snakes 
Clutch'd  at  the  crag,  and  started  thro'  mid-air 
Bearing  an  eagle's  nest:  and  thro'  the  tree 
Rush'd  ever  a  rainy  wiiid,  and  thro'  the  wind 
Pierced  ever  a  child's  cry :  and  crag  and  tree 
Scaling,  Sir  Lancelot  from  the  perilous  nest, 
This  ruby  necklace  thrice  around  her  neck, 
And  all  uuscarr'd  from  beak  qr  talon,  brought 
A  maiden  babe;  which  Arthur  pitying  took, 
Then  gave  it  to  his  Queen  to  rear:  the  Queen 
But  coldly  acquiescing,  in  her  white  arms 
Received,  and  after  loved  it  tenderly 
And  named  it  Nestling;  so  forgot  herself 
A  moment,  and  her  cares ;  till  that  young  life 
Being  smitten  in  mid-heaven  with  mortal  cold 
Past  from  her;  and  in  time  the  carcanet 
Vext  her  with  plaintive  memories  of  the  child : 
So  she,  delivering  it  to  Arthur,  said, 
"Take  thou  the  jewels  of  this  dead  innocence, 
And  make  them,  an  thon  wilt,  a  tourney-prize." 


*  This  poem  forms  one  of  the  "  Idyls 
between  "  Pelleas  and  Ettarre"  and  "  Gu 


of  the  King."    Its  place  is 


To  whom  the  King,  "  Peace  to  thine  eagle-borne 
Dead  nestling,  and  this  honor  after  death, 
Following  thy  will !  but,  O  my  Queen,  I  muse 
Why  ye  not  wear  on  arm,  or  neck,  or  zone 
Those  diamonds  that  I  rescued  from  the  tarn, 
And  Lancelot  won,  methonght,  for  thee  to  wear." 

"Would  rather  ye  had  let  them  fall,"  she  cried, 
"Plunge  and  be  lost — ill-fated  as  they  were, 
A  bitterness  to  me  1— ye  look  amazed, 
Not  knowing  they  were  lost  as  soon  as  given — 
Slid  from  my  hands,  when  I  was  leaning  out 
Above  the  river— that  unhappy  child 
Past  in  her  barge :  but  rosier  luck  will  go 
With  these  rich  jewels,  seeing  that  they  came 
Not  from  the  skeleton  of  a  brother-slayer, 
But  the  sweet  body  of  a  maiden  babe. 
Perchance — who  knows  ?— the  purest  of  thy  knights 
May  win  them  for  the  purest  of  iny  maids." 

i     She  ended,  and  the  cry  of  a  great  jousts 
With  trumpet-blowings  ran  on  all  the  ways 
From  Camelot  in  among  the  faded  fields 
To  farthest  towers;  and  everywhere  the  knights 
Arm'd  for  a  day  of  glory  before  the  King. 

But  on  the  hither  side  of  that  loud  morn 
Into  the  hall  stagger'd,  his  visage  ribb'd 
From  ear  to  ear  with  dogwhip-weals,  his  nose 
Bridge-broken,  one  eye  out,  and  one  hand  off, 
And  one  with  shatter'd  fingers  dangling  lame, 
A  churl,  to  whom  indignantly  the  King, 

"My  churl,  for  whom  Christ  died,  what  evil  beast 
Hath  drawn  his  claws  athwart  thy  face  f  or  fiend  ? 
Man  was  it  who  marr'd  Heaven's  image  in  thee  thus  r" 

Then,  sputtering  thro'  the  hedge  of  splinter'd  teeth, 
Yet  strangers  to  the  tongue,  and  with  blunt  stump 
Pitch-blacken'd  sawing  the  air,  said  the  maim'd  churl, 

"  He  took  them  and  he  drave  them  to  his  tower- 
Some  hold  he  was  a  table-knight  of  thine— 
A  hundred  goodly  ones— the  Red  Knight,  he — 
Lord,  I  was  tending  swine,  and  the  Red  Knight 
Brake  in  upon  me  and  drave  them  to  his  tower; 
And  when  I  call'd  upon  thy  name  as  one 
That  doest  right  by  gentle  and  by  churl, 
Maim'd  me  and  maul'd,  and  would  outright  have 

slain, 

Save  that  he  sware  me  to  a  message,  saying — 
'Tell  thou  the  King  and  all  his  liars,  that  I 
Have  founded  my  Round  Table  in  the  North, 
And  whatsoever  his  own  knights  have  sworn 
My  knights  have  sworn  the  c'ounter  to  it— and  say 
My  tower  is  full  of  harlots,  like  his  court, 
But  mine  are  worthier,  seeing  they  profess 
To  be  none  other  than  themselves — and  say 
My  knights  are  all  adulterers  like  his  own, 
But  mine  are  truer,  seeing  they  profess 
To  be  none  other;  and  say  his  honr  is  come, 
The  heathen  are  upon  him,  his  long  lance 
Broken,  and  his  Excalibur  a  straw.' " 

Then  Arthur  turn'd  to  Kay  the  seneschal, 
"  Take  thou  my  churl,  and  tend  him  curiously 
Like  a  king's  heir,  till  all  his  hurts  be  whole. 
The  heathen — but  that  ever-climbing  wave, 
Hurl'd  back  again  so  often  in  empty  foam, 
Hath  lain  for  years  at  rest— and  renegades, 


256 


THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT. 


Thieves,  bandits,  leavings  of  confusiou,  whom 

The  wholesome  realm  is  purged  of  otherwhere,— 

Friends,  thro'  your  manhood  and  your  fealty, — now 

Make  their  last  head  like  Satau  in  the  North. 

My  younger  knights,  new-made,  in  whom  your  flower 

Waits  to  be  solid  fruit  of  golden  deeds, 

Move  with  me  toward  their  quelling,  which  achieved, 

The  loneliest  ways  are  safe  from  shore  to  shore. 

But  thou,  Sir  Lancelot,  sitting  in  my  place 

Enchair'd  to-morrow,  arbitrate  the  field ; 

For  wherefore  shouldst  thou  care  to  mingle  with  it, 

Only  to  yield  my  Queen  her  own  again  ? 

Speak,  Lancelot,  thou  art  silent :  is  it  well  ?" 

Thereto  Sir  Lancelot  answer'd,  "  It  is  well : 
Yet  better  if  the  King  abide,  and  leave 
The  leading  of  his  younger  knights  to  me. 
Else,  for  the  King  has  will'd  it,  it  is  well." 

Then  Arthur  rose,  and  Lancelot  follow'd  him, 
And  while  they  stood  without  the  doors,  the  King 
Turn'd  to  him  saying,  "  Is  it  then  so  well  ? 
Or  mine  the  blame  that  oft  I  seem  as  he 
Of  whom  was  written,  '  a  sound  is  in  his  ears' — 
The  foot  that  loiters,  bidden  go, — the  glance 
That  only  seems  half-loyal  to  command, — 
A  manner  somewhat  fall'n  from  reverence — 
Or  have  I  dream'd  the  bearing  of  our  knights 
Less  manful  and  less  gentle  than  when  of  old 
We  swept  the  heathen  from  the  Roman  wall  ? 
Or  whence  the  fear  lest  this  my  realm,  uprear'd, 
By  noble  deeds  at  one  with  noble  vows, 
From  flat  confusion  and  brute  violences, 
Keel  back  into  the  beast,  and  be  no  more  ?" 

He  spoke,  and  taking  all  his  younger  knights, 
Down  the  slope  city  rode,  and  sharply  turn'd 
North  by  the  gate.    In  her  high  bower  the  Queen, 
Working  a  tapestry,  lifted  up  her  head, 
Watch'd   her   lord   pass,  and   knew   not  that   she 

sigh'd. 

Then  ran  across  her  memory  the  strange  rhyme 
Of  by-gone  Merlin,  "Where  is  he  who  knows? 
From  the  great  deep  to  the  great  deep  he  goes." 

But  when  the  morning  of  a  tournament, 
By  these  in  earnest  those  in  mockery  call'd 
The  Tournament  of  the  Dead  Innocence, 
Brake  with  a  wet  wind  blowing,  Lancelot, 
Round  whose  sick  head  all  night,  like  birds  of  prey, 
The  words  of  Arthur  flying  shriek'd,  arose, 
And  down  a  streetway  hung  with  folds  of  pure 
White  samite,  and  by  fountains  running  wine, 
Where  children  sat  in  white  with  cups  of  gold, 
Moved  to  the  lists,  and  there,  with  slow  sad  steps 
Ascending,  flll'd  his  double-dragon'd  chair. 

He  glanced  and  -saw  the  stately  galleries, 
Dame,  damsel,  each  thro'  worship  of  their  Queen 
White-robed  in  honor  of  the  stainless  child, 
And  some  with  scatter'd  jewels,  like  a  bank 
Of  maiden  snow  mingled  with  sparks  of  fire. 
He  lookt  but  once,  and  veil'd  his  eyes  again. 

The  Budden  trumpet  sounded  as  in  a  dream 
To  ears  but  half-awaked,  then  one  low  roll 
Of  Autumn  thunder,  and  the  jousts  began: 
And  ever  the  wind  blew,  and  yellowing  leaf 
And  gloom  and  gleam,  and  shower  and  shorn  plume 
Went  down  it.    Sighing  weariedly,  as  one 
Who  sits  and  gazes  on  a  faded  flre, 
When  all  the  goodlier  guests  are  past  away, 
Sat  their  great  umpire,  looking  o'er  the  lists. 
He  saw  the  laws  that  ruled  the  tournament 
Broken,  but  spake  not ;  once,  a  knight  cast  down 
Before  his  throne  of  arbitration  cursed 
The  dead  babe  and  the  follies. of  the  King: 
And  once  the  laces  of  a  helmet  crack'd, 


And  show'd  him,  like  a  vermin  in  its  hole, 

Modred,  a  narrow  face:  anon  he  heard 

The  voice  that  billow'd  round  the  barriers  roar 

An  ocean-sounding  welcome  to  one  knight, 

But  uewly-enter'd,  taller  than  the  rest, 

And  armor'd  all  in  forest  green,  whereon 

There  tript  a  hundred  tiny  silver  deer, 

And  wearing  but  a  holly-spray  for  crest, 

With  ever-scattering  berries,  and  on  the  shield 

A  spear,  a  harp,  a  bugle— Tristram— late 

From  overseas  in  Brittany  return'd, 

And  marriage  with  a  princess  of  that  realm, 

Isolt  the  White— Sir  Tristram  of  the  Woods— 

Whom  Lancelot  knew,  had  held  sometime  with  pain 

His  own  against  him,  and  now  yearn'd  to  shake 

The  burthen  off  his  heart  in  one  full  shock 

With  Tristram  ev'n  to  death :  his  strong  hands  gript 

And  dinted  the  gilt  dragons  right  and  left, 

Until  he  groan'd  for  wrath — so  many  knights 

That  ware  their  ladies'  colors  on  the  casque, 

Drew  from  before  Sir  Tristram  to  the  bounds, 

And  there  with  gibes  and  flickering  mockeries 

Stood,  while  he  mutter'd,  "  Craven  crests !   O  shame  ! 

What  faith  have  these  in  whom  they  sware  to  love? 

The  glory  of  our  Round  Table  is  no  more." 

So  Tristram  won,  and  Lancelot  gave,  the  gems, 
Not  speaking  other  word  than  "Hast  thou  won? 
Art  thou  the  purest,  brother  1    See,  the  hand 
Wherewith  thon  takest  this,  is  red !"  to  whom 
Tristram  —  half  plagued   by   Lancelot's  languorous 

mood — 

Made  answer,  "  Ay,  but  wherefore  toss  me  this' 
Like  a  dry  bone  cast  to  some  hungry  hound? 
Let  be  thy  fair  Queen's  fantasy.    Strength  of  heart 
And  might  of  limb,  but  mainly  use  and  skill, 
Are  winners  in  this  pastime  of  our  King. 
My  hand — belike  the  lance  hath  dript  upon  it — 
No  blood  of  mine,  I  trow;  but  O,  chief  knight, 
RigTit  arm  of  Arthur  in  the  battlefield, 
Great  brother,  thou  nor  I  have  made  the  world ; 
Be  happy  in  thy  fair  Queen  as  I  in  mine." 

And  Tristram  round  the  gallery  made  his  horse 
Caracole ;  then  bow'd  his  homage,  bluntly  saying, 
"  Fair  damsels,  each  to  him  who  worships  each 
Sole  Queen  of  Beauty  and  of  love,  behold 
This  day  my  Queen  of  Beauty  is  not  here." 
Then  most  of  these  were  mute,  some  anger'd,  one 
Murmuring  "All  courtesy  is  dead,"  and  one, 
"  The  glory  of  our  Round  Table  is  no  more." 

Then   fell  thick  rain,  plume   droopt  and  mantle 

clung, 

And  pettish  cries  awoke,  and  the  wan  day 
Went  glooming  down  in  wet  and  weariness: 
But  under  her  black  brows  a  swarthy  dame 
Laught  shrilly,  crying  "  Praise  the  patient  saints, 
Our  one  white  day  of  Innocence  hath  past, 
Tho'  somewhat  draggled  at  the  skirt    So  be  it. 
The  snowdrop  only,  flow'ring  thro'  the  year, 
Would  make  the  world  as  blank  as  Wintertide.. 
Come— let  us  comfort  their  sad  eyes,  our  Queen's 
And  Lancelot's,  at  this  night's  solemnity 
With  all  the  kindlier  colors  of  the  field." 

So  dame  and  damsel  glitter'd  at  the  feast 
Variously  gay:  for  he  that  tells  the  tale 
Liken'd  them,  saying  "  as  when  an  hour  of  cold 
Falls  on  the  mountain  in  midsummer  snows, 
And  all  the  purple  slopes  of  mountain  flowers 
Pass  under  white,  till  the  warm  hour  returns 
With  veer  of  wind,  and  all  are  flowers  again ; 
So  dame  and  damsel  cast  the  simple  white, 
And  glowing  in  all  colors,  the  live  grass, 
Rose-campion,  bluebell,  kingcup,  poppy,  glanced 
About  the  revels,  and  with  mirth  so  loud 
Beyond  all  use,  that,  half-amazed,  the  Queen, 


THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT. 


237 


"Bat  Dagonet,  with  one  foot  poised  in  his  hand." 


And  wroth  at  Tristram  and  the  lawless  jousts, 
Brake  np  their  sports,  then  slowly  to  her  bower 
Parted,  and  in  her  bosom  pain  was  lord. 

And  little  Dagonet  on  the  morrow  morn, 
High  over  all  the  yellowing  Autumn-tide, 
Danced  like  a  wither'd  leaf  before  the  Hall. 
Then  Tristram  saying,  "Why  skip  ye  so,  Sir  Fool?" 
Wheel'd  round  on  either  heel,  Dagonet  replied, 
"  Belike  for  lack  of  wiser  company  : 
Or  being  fool,  and  seeing  too  much  wit 
Makes  the  world  rotten,  why,  belike  I  skip 
To  know  myself  the  wisest  knight  of  all." 
"  Ay,  fool,"  said  Tristram,  "  but  'tis  eating  dry 
To  dance  without  a  catch,  a  roundelay 
To  dance  to."    Then  he  twangled  on  his  harp, 
And  while  he  twangled  little  Dagonet  stood, 
Quiet  as  any  water-sodden  log 
Stay'd  in  the  wandering  warble  of  a  brook ; 
But  when  the  twangling  ended,  skipt  again ; 
Then  being  ask'd,  "Why  skipt  ye  not,  Sir  Fool?" 
Made  answer,  "  I  had  liefer  twenty  years 
Skip  to  the  broken  music  of  my  brains 
Than  any  broken  music  ye  can  make." 
Then  Tristram,  waiting  for  the  quip  to  come, 
"Good  now,  what  music  have  I  broken,  fool?" 
And  little  Dagonet,  skipping,  "Arthur,  the  king's; 
For  when  thou  playest  that  air  with  Queen  Isolt, 
Thou  makest  broken  music  with  thy  bride, 
Her  daintier  namesake  down  in  Brittany— 
And  so  thou  breakest  Arthur's  music  too." 
';  Save  for  that  broken  music  in  thy  brains, 
Sir  Fool,"  said  Tristram,  "I  would  break  thy  head. 
Fool,  I  came  late,  the  heathen  wars  were  o'er, 
The  life  had  flown,  we  sware  but  by  the  shell — 
I  am  but  a  fool  to  reason  with  a  fool — 
Come,   thou   art   crabb'd    and   sour :    but   lean    me 

down, 

Sir  Dazonet,  one  of  thy  long  asses'  ears, 
And  hearken  if  my  music  be  not  true. 
17 


'"Free  love  — free  field — we  love  but  while  we 

may: 

The  woods  are  hnsh'd,  their  mnsic  is  no  more: 
The  leaf  is  dead,  the  yearning  past  away : 
New  leaf,  new  life— the  days  of  frost  are  o'er: 
New  life,  new  love  to  suit  the  newer  day: 
New  loves  are  sweet  as  those  that  went  before : 
Free  love— free  field— we  love  but  while  we  may.' 

"  Ye  might  have  moved  slow-measure  to  my  tune, 
Not  stood  stockstill.    I  made  it  in  the  woods, 
And  found  it  ring  as  true  as  tested  gold." 

But  Dagonet,  with  one  foot  poised  in  his  hand, 
"  Friend,  did  ye  mark  that  fountain  yesterday 
Made  to  run  wine? — but  this  had  run  itself 
All  out  like  a  long  life  to  a  sour  end — 
And  them  that  round  it  sat  with  golden  cups 
To  hand  the  wine  to  whomsoever  came — 
The  twelve  small  damosels  white  as  Innocence, 
In  honor  of  poor  Innocence  the  babe, 
Who  left  the  gems  which  Innocence  the  Queen 
Lent  to  the  King,  and  Innocence  the  King 
Gave  for  a  prize— and  one  of  those  white  slips 
Handed  her  cup  and  piped,  the  pretty  one, 
'  Drink,  drink,  Sir  Fool,'  and  thereupon  I  drank, 
Spat — pish  —  the   cap  was  gold,  the   draught  was 
mud." 

And  Tristram,  "Was  it  muddier  than  thy  gibes? 
Is  all  the  laughter  gone  dead  out  of  thee  ? — 
Not  marking  how  the  knighthood  mock  thee,  fool — 
'Fear  God:  honor  the  king— his  one  true  knight — 
Sole  follower  of  the  vows' — for  here  be  they 
Who  knew  thee  swine  enow  before  I  came, 
Smuttier  than  blasted  grain:  but  when  the  King 
Had  made  thee  fool,  thy  vanity  so  shot  up 
It  frighted  all  free  fool  from  out  thy  heart; 
Which  left  thee  less  than  fool,  and  less  than  swiur-, 
A  naked  aught — yet  swine  I  hold  thee  still, 
'For  I  have  flung  thee  pearls  and  find  thee  swine." 


258 


THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT. 


And  little  Dagonet,  mincing  with  his  feet, 
"  Knight,  an  ye  fling  those  rubies  round  my  neck 
In  lieu  of  here,  I'll  hold  thou  hast  some  touch 
Of  music,  since  I  care  not  for  thy  pearls. 
Swine  ?    I  have  wallow'd,  I  have  wash'd— the  world 
Is  flesh  and  shadow— I  have  had  my  day. 
The  dirty  nurse,  Experience,  in  her  kind 
Hath  foul'd  me— an  I  wallow'd,  then  I  wash'd— 
I  have  had  my  day  and  my  philosophies — 
And  thank  the  Lord  I  am  King  Arthur's  fool. 
Swine,  say  yef  swine,  goats,  asses,  rams,  and  geese 
Troop'd  round  a  Payuim  harper  once,  who  thramm'd 
On  such  a  wire  as  musically  as  thou 
Some  such  fine  song— but  never  a  king's  fool." 

And  Tristram,  "Then  were  swine,  goats,  asses, 

geese 

The  wiser  fools,  seeing  thy  Paynim  bard 
Had  such  a  mastery  of  his  mystery 
That  he  could  harp  his  wife  up  out  of  Hell." 

Then  Dagonet,  turning  on  the  ball  of  his  foot, 
"And  whither  harp'st  thou  thine?  down!  and  thy- 
self 

Down !  and  two  more :  a  helpful  harper  thou, 
That  harpest  downward !    Dost  thou  know  the  star 
We  call  the  harp  of  Arthur  up  in  heave*  ?" 

And  Tristram,  "Ay,  Sir  Fool,  for  when  our  King 
Was  victor  welluigh  day  by  day,  the  knights, 
Glorying  in  each  new  glory,  set  his  name 
High  on  all  hills,  and  in  the  signs  of  heaven." 

And  Dagonet  answer'd,  "Ay,  and  when  the  land 
Was  freed,  and  the  Queen  false,  ye  set  yourself 
To  babble  about  him,  all  to  show  your  wit — 
And  whether  he  were  king  by  courtesy, 
Or  king  by  right — and  so  went  harping  down 
The  black  king's  highway,  got  so  far,  and  grew 
So  witty  that  ye  play'd  at  ducks  and  drakes 
With  Arthur's  vows  on  the  great  lake  of  flre. 
Tuwbao !  do  ye  see  it  ?  do  ye  see  the  star  ?" 

"Nay,  fool,"  said  Tristram,  "not  in  open  day." 
And  Dagonet,  "Nay,  nor  will:  I  see  it  and  hear. 
It  makes  a  silent  music  up  in  heaven, 
And  I,  and  Arthur  and  the  angels  hear, 
And  then  we  skip."    "  Lo,  fool,"  he  said,  "  ye  talk 
Fool's  treason :  is  the  king  thy  brother  fool  ?" 
Then  little  Dagonet  clapt  his  bands  and  shrill'd, 
"Ay,  ay,  my  brother  fool,  the  king  of  fools ! 
Conceits  himself  as  God  that  he  can  make 
Figs  out  of  thistles,  silk  from  bristles,  milk 
From  burning  spurge,  honey  from  hornet-combs, 
And  men  from  beasts — Long  live  the  king  of  fools !" 

And  down  the  city  Dagonet  danced  away. 
But  thro"  the  slowly-mellowing  avenues 
And  solitary  passes  of  the  wood 
Rode  Tristram  toward  Lyonesse  and  the  west. 
Before  him  fled  the  face  of  Queen  Isolt 
With  ruby-circled  neck,  but  evermore 
Past,  as  a  rustle  or  twitter  in  the  wood 
Made  dull  his  inner,  keen  his  outer  eye 
For  all  that  walk'd,  or  crept,  or  perched,  or  flew. 
Anon  the  face,  as,  when  a  gust  hath  blown, 
UnrufHing  waters  re-collect  the  shape 
Of  one  that  in  them  sees  himself,  retnrn'd ; 
But  a't  the  slot  or  fewmets  of  a  deer, 
Or  ev'n  a  fall'n  feather,  vanish'd  again. 

So  on  for  all  that  day  from  lawn  to  lawn 
Thro'  many  a  league-long  bower  he  rode.    At  length 
A  lodge  of  intertwisted  beechen-boughs 
Furze-cramm'd,  and  bracken-rooft,  the  which  him- 
self 

Built  for  a  summer  day  with  Queen  Isolt 
Against  a  shower,  dark  in  the  golden  grove 


Appearing,  sent  his  fancy  back  to  where 

She  lived  a  moon  in  that  low  lodge  with  him : 

Till  Mark  her  lord  had  past,  the  Cornish  king, 

With  six  or  seven,  when  Tristram  was  away, 

And  snatch'd  her  thence;  yet  dreading  worse  than 

shame 

Her  warrior  Tristram,  spake  not  any  word, 
But  bode  his  hour,  devising  wretchedness. 

And  now  that  desert  lodge  to  Tristram  lookt 
So  sweet,  that  halting,  in  he  past,  and  sank 
Down  on  a  drift  of  foliage  random-blown ; 
But  could  not  rest  for  musing  how  to  smooth 
And  sleek  his  marriage  over  to  the  Queen. 
Perchance  in  lone  Tintagil  far  from  all 
The  touguesters  of  the  court  she  had  not  heard. 
But  then  what  folly  had  sent  him  overseas 
After  she  left  him  lonely  here?  a  name? 
Was  it  the  name  of  one  in  Brittany, 
Isolt,  the  daughter  of  the  King?    "Isolt 
Of  the  white   hands"  they  call'd   her:   the   sweet 

name 

Allured  him  first,  and  then  the  maid  herself, 
Who  served  him  well  with  those  white  hands  of 

hers, 

And  loved  him  well,  until  himself  had  thought 
He  loved  her  also,  wedded  easily, 
But  left  her  all  as  easily,  and  return'd. 
The  black-blue  Irish  hair  and  Irish  eyes 
Had  drawn  him  home— what  marvel?  then  he  laid 
His  brows  upon  the  drifted  leaf  and  dream'd. 

He  seemed  to  pace  the  strand  of  Brittany 
Between  Isolt  of  Britain  and  his  bride, 
And  show'd  them  both  the  ruby-chain,  and  both 
Began  to  struggle  for  it,  till  his  Queen 
Graspt  it  so  hard,  that  all  her  hand  was  red. 
Then  cried  the  Breton,  "Look,  her  hand  is  red! 
These  be  no  rubies,  this  is  frozen  blood, 
And  melts  within  her  hand— her  hand  is  hot 
With  ill  desires,  but  this  I  gave  thee,  look, 
Is  all  as  cool  and  white  as  any  flower." 
Follow'd  a  rush  of  eagle's  wings,  and  then 
A  whimpering  of  the  spirit  of  the  child, 
Because  the  twain  had  spoil'd  her  carcanet. 

He  dream'd;  but  Arthur  with  a  hundred  spears 
Rode  far,  till  o'er  the  illimitable  reed, 
And  many  a  glancing  plash  and  sallowy  isle, 
The  wide-wing'd  sunset  of  the  misty  marsh 
Glared  on  a  huge  machicolated  tower 
That  stood  with  open  doors,  whereont  was  roll'd 
A  roar  of  riot,  as  from  men  secure 
Amid  their  marshes,  ruffians  at  their  ease 
Among  their  harlot-brides,  an  evil  song. 
"Lo  there,"  said  one  of  Arthur's  youth,  for  there, 
High  on  a  grim  dead  tree  before  the  tower, 
A  goodly  brother  of  The  Table  Round 
Swung  by  the  neck:  and  on  the  boughs  a  shield 
Showing  a  shower  of  blood  in  a  field  noir, 
And  therebeside  a  horn,  inflamed  the  knights 
At  that  dishonor  done  the  gilded  spur, 
Till  each  would  clash  the  shield,  and  blow  the  horn. 
But  Arthur  waved  them  back:  alone  he  rode. 
Then  at  the  dry  harsh  roar  of  the  great  horn, 
That  sent  the  face  of  all  the  marsh  aloft 
An  ever  upward-rushing  storm  and  cloud 
Of  shriek  and  plume,  the  Red  Knight  heard,  and  all, 
Even  to  Upmost  lance  and  topmost  helm, 
In  blood-red  armor  sallying,  howl'd  to  the  King, 

"The  teeth  of  Hell  flay  bare  and  gnash  thee  flat  !— 
Lo!  art  thou  not  that  eunuch-hearted  King 
Who  fain  had  dipt  free  manhood  from  the  world— 
The  woman-worshiper?    Yea,  God's  curse,  and  I! 
Slain  was  the  brother  of  my  paramour 
By  a  knight  of  thine,  and  I  that  heard  her  whine 
And  snivel,  being  eunuch-hearted  too, 
Sware  by  the  scorpion-worm  that  twists  in  hell, 


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And  stings  itself  to  everlasting  deatb, 

To  hang  whatever  knight  of  thine  I  fought 

And  tumbled.    Art  thou  King  ?— Look  to  thy  life  1" 

He  ended :    Arthur  knew  the  voice  ;  the  face 
Wellnigh  was  helmet-hidden,  and  the  name 
Went  wandering  somewhere  darkling  in  his  mind. 
And  Arthur  deign'd  not  use  of  word  or  sword, 
But  let  the  drunkard,  as  he  stretch'd  from  horse 
To  strike  him,  overbalancing  his  bulk, 
Down  from  the  causeway  heavily  to  the  swamp 
Fall,  as  the  crest  of  some  slow-arching  wave 
Heard  in  dead  jight  along  that  table-shore 
Drops  flat,  and  after  the  great  waters  break 
Whitening  for  half  a  league  and  thin  themselves 
Far  over  sands  marbled  with  moon  and  clouti, 
From  less  and  less  to  nothing  ;  thus  he  fell 
Head-heavy,  while  the  knights,  who  watched  him, 

roar'd 

And  shouted  and  leapt  down  upon  the  fall'n ; 
There  trampled  out  his  face  from  beicg  known, 
And  sank  his  head  in  mire,  and  slimed  themselves: 
Nor  heard  the  King  for  their  own  cries,  but  sprang 
Thro'  open  doors,  and  swording  right  and  left 
Men,  women,  on  their  sodden  faces,  hurl'd 
The  tables  over  and  the  wines,  and  slew 
Till  all  the  rafters  rang  with  woman-yells, 
And  all  the  pavement  stream'd  with  massacre : 
Then,  yell  with  yell  echoing,  they  fired  the  tower, 
Which  half  that  autumn  night,  like  the  live  North, 
Red-pulsing  up  thro'  Alioth  and  Alcor, 
Made  all  above  it,  and  a  hundred  meres 
About  it,  as  the  water  Moab  saw 
Come   round  by  the  East,   and   out  beyond  them 

flush'd 
The  long  low  dune,  and  lazy-plunging  sea. 

So  all  the  ways  were  safe  from  shore  to  shore, 
But  in  the  heart  of  Arthur  pain  was  lord. 

Then  out  of  Tristram  waking  the  red  dream 
Fled  with  a  shout,  and  that  low  lodge  return'd, 
Mid-forest,  and  the  wind  among  the  boughs. 
He  whistled  his  good  warhorse  left  to  graze 
Among  the  forest  greens,  vaulted  upon  him, 
And  rode  beneath  an  ever-showering  leaf, 
Till  one  lone  woman,  weeping  near  a  cross, 
Stay'd  him,   "Why  weep  ye?"    "Lord,"  she  said, 

"my  man 

Hath  left  me  or  is  dead ;"  whereon  he  thought — 
"What,  an  she  hate  me  now?    I  would  not  this. 
What,  an  she  love  me  still  ?    I  would  not  that. 
I  know  not  what  I  would" — but  said  to  her. — 
"Yet  weep  not  thou,  lest,  if  thy  mate  return, 
He  find  thy  favor  changed  and  love  thee  not" — 
Then  pressing  day  by  day  thro'  Lyonesse 
Last  in  a  roky  hollow,  belling,  heard 
The  hounds  of  Mark,  and  felt  the  goodly  hounds 
Yelp  at  his  heart,  but  turning,  past  and  gain'd 
Tintagil,  half  in  sea,  and  high  on  land, 
A  crown  of  towers. 

Down  in  a  casement  sat, 
A  low  sea-sunset  glorying  round  her  hair 
And  glossy-throated  grace,  Isolt  the  Queen. 
And  when  she  heard  the  feet  of  Tristram  grind 
The  spiring  stone  that  scaled  about  her  tower, 
Flushed,  started,  met  him  at  the  doors,  and  there 
Belted  his  body  with  her  white  embrace, 
Crying  aloud  "Not  Mark — not  Mark,  my  soul! 
The  footstep  flntter'd  me  at  first:  not  he: 
Cat-like  thro'  his  own  castle  steals  my  Mark, 
But  warrior-wise  thou  stridest  through  his  halls 
Who  hates  thee,  as  I  him — ev'n  to  the  death. 
My  soul,  I  felt  my  hatred  for  my  Mark 
Quicken  within  me,  and  knew  that  thou  wert  nigh." 
To  whom  Sir  Tristram  smiling,  "I  am  here. 
Let  be  thy  Mark,  seeing  he  is  not  thine." 


And  drawing  somewhat  backward  she  replied, 
"Can  he  be  wroug'd  who  is  not  ev'n  his  own, 
But  save  for  dread  of  thee  had  beaten  me, 
Scratch'd,   bitten,   blinded,   marr'd   me   somehow— 

Mark? 

What  rights  are  his  that  dare  not  strike  for  them? 
Not  lift  a  hand — not,  tho1  he  found  me  thus ! 
But  hearken,  have  ye  met  him  ?  hence  he  went 
To-day  for  three  days'  hunting— as  he  said— 
And  so  returns  belike  within  an  hour. 
Mark's  way,  my  soul !— but  eat  not  thou,  with  him, 
Because  he  hates  thee  even  more  than  fears; 
Nor  drink :  and  when  thou  passest  any  wood 
Close  visor,  lest  an  arrow  from  the  bush 
Should  leave  me  all  alone  with  Mark  and  hell. 
My  God,  the  measure  of  my  hate  for  Mark, 
Is  as  the  measure  of  my  love  for  thee." 

So,  pluck;d  one  way  by  hate  and  one  by  love, 
Drain'd  of  her  force,  again  she  sat,  and  spake 
To  Tristram,  as  he  knelt  before  her,  saying, 
"O  hunter,  and  O  blower  of  the  horn, 
Harper,  and  thou  hast  been  a  rover  too, 
For,  ere  I  mated  with  my  shambling  king, 
Ye  twain  had  fallen  out  about  the  bride 
Of  one — his  name  is  out  of  me — the  prize, 
If  prize  she  were— (what  marvel — she  could  see) — 
Thine,  friend ;  and  ever  since  my  craven  seeks 
To  wreck  thee  villanously :  but,  O  Sir  Knight, 
What  dame  or  damsel  have  ye  kneeled  to  last?" 

And  Tristram,  "  Last  to  my  Queen  Paramount, 
Here  now  to  my  Queen  Paramount  of  love, 
And  loveliness,  ay,  lovelier  than  when  first 
Her  light  feet  fell  on  bur  rough  Lyonesse, 
Sailing  from  Ireland." 

Softly  laugh'd  Isolt, 

"Flatter  me  not,  for  hath  not  our  great  Queen 
My  dole  of  beauty  trebled  ?"  and  he  said 
"Her  beauty  is  her  beauty,  and  thine  thine, 
And  thine  is  more  to  me — soft,  gracious,  kind — 
Save  when  thy  Mark  is  kindled  on  thy  lips 
Most  gracious ;  but  she,  haughty,  ev'n  to  him, 
Lancelot ;  for  I  have  seen  him  wan  enow 
To  make  one  doubt  if  ever  the  great  Queen 
Have  yielded  him  her  love." 

To  whom  Isolt, 

"  Ah  then,  false  hunter  and  false  harper,  thou 
Who  brakest  thro'  the  scruple  of  my  bond, 
Calling  me  thy  white  hind,  and  saying  to  me 
That  Guinevere  had  sinned  against  the  highest, 
And  I — misyoked  with  such  a  want  of  man — 
That  I  could  hardly  sin  against  the  lowest" 

He  answer'd,  "  O  my  soul,  be  comforted ! 
If  this  be  sweet,  to  sin  in  leading-strings, 
If  here  be  comfort,  and  if  ours  be  sin, 
Crown'd  warrant  had  we  for  the  crowning  sin 
That  made  us  happy:  but  how  ye  greet  me— fear 
And  fault  and  doubt — no  word  of  that  fond  tale— 
Thy  deep  heart-yearnings,  thy  sweet  memories 
Of  Tristram  in  that  year  he  was  away." 

And,  saddening  on  the  sudden,  spake  Isolt, 
"I  had  forgotten  all  in  my  strong  joy 
To  see  thee — yearnings  ? — ay  !  for,  hour  by  hour, 
Here  in  the  never-ended  afternoon, 
O  sweeter  than  all  memories  of  thee, 
Deeper  than  any  yearnings  after  thee 
Seem'd  those  far-rolling,  westward-smiling  seas, 
Watched  from  this  tower.    Isolt  of  Britain  daeh'd 
Before  Isolt  of  Brittany  on  the  strand, 
Would  that  have  chill'd  her  bride-kiss?     Wedded 

her? 

Fought  in  her  father's  battles  ?  wounded  there  ? 
I  The  King  was  all  fulfill'd  with  gratefulness, 


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261 


And  she,  my  namesake  of  the  hands,  that  heal'd 
Thy  hurt  and  heart  with  unguent  and  caress — 
Well— can  I  wish  her  any  huger  wrong 
Than  having  known  theef  her  too  hast  thon  left 
To  pine  and  waste  in  those  sweet  memories  t 

0  were  I  not  my  Mark's,  by  whom  all  men 
Are  nuble,  I  should  hate  thee  more  than  love." 

And  Tristram,  fondling  her  light  hands,  replied, 
"Grace,  Queen,  for  being  loved:  she  loved  me  well. 
Did  I  love  her?  the  name  at  least  I  loved. 
Isolt?— I  fought  his  battles,  for  Isolt ! 
The  night  was  dark :  the  true  star  set  '.—Isolt ! 
The  name  was  rnler  of  the  dark — Isolt  ? 
Care  not  for  her !  patient,  and  prayerful,  meek, 
Pale-blooded,  she  will  yield  herself  to  God." 

And  Isolt  answer'd,  "Yea,  and  why  not  I? 
Mine  is  the  larger  need,  who  am  not  meek, 
Pale-tlooded,  prayerful.    Let  me  tell  thee  now. 
Here  one  black,  mute  midsummer  night  I  sate 
Lonely,  but  musing  on  thee,  wondering  where, 
Murmuring  a  light  song  I  had  heard  thee  sing, 
And  once  or  twice  I  spake  thy  name  aloud. 
Then  flash'd  a  levin-brand ;  and  near  me  stood, 
In  fuming  sulphur  blue  and  green,  a  fiend — 
Mark's  way  to  steal  behind  one  in  the  dark — 
For  there  was  Mark:  'He  has  wedded  her,' he  said, 
Not  said,  but  hiss'd  it :  then  this  crown  of  towers 
So  shook  to  such  a  roar  of  all  the  sky, 
That  here  in  utter  dark  I  swoon'd  away, 
And  woke  again  in  utter  dark,  and  cried, 
1 1  will  flee  heuce  and  give  myself  to  God'— 
And  thou  wert  lying  in  thy  new  Ionian's  arms." 

Then  Tristram,  ever  dallying  with  her  hand, 
"May  God  be  with  thee,  sweet,  when  old  and  gray, 
And  past  deeire !"  a  saying  that  anger'd  her. 
"  'May  God  be  with  thee,  sweet,  when  thon  art  old, 
And  sweet  no  more  to  me !'    I  need  Him  now. 
For  when  had  Lancelot  utter'd  ought  so  gross 
Ev'n  to  the  swineherd's  malkin  in  the  must? 
The  greater  man,  the  greater  courtesy. 
But  thou,  thro'  ever  harrying  thy  wild  beasts- 
Save  that  to  touch  a  harp,  tilt  with  a  lance 
Becomes  thee  well— art  grown  wild  beast  thyself. 
How  darest  thou,  if  lover,  push  me  even 
In  fancy  from  thy  side,  and  set  me  far 
lu  the  gray  distance,  half  a  life  away, 
Her  to  be  loved  no  more  ?    Unsay  it,  unswear ! 
Flatter  me  rather,  seeing  me  so  weak, 
Broken  with  Mark  and  hate  and  solitude, 
Thy  marriage  and  mine  own,  that  I  should  suck 
Lies  like  sweet  wines :  lie  to  me :  I  believe. 
Will  ye  not  lie  ?  not  swear,  as  there  ye  kneel, 
And  solemnly  as  when  ye  sware  to  him, 
The  man  of  men,  our  King— My  God,  the  power 
Was  once  in  vows  when  men  believed  the  King ! 
They   lied   not    then,   who   swore,  and    thro'   their 

vows 

The  King  prevailing  made  his  realm : — I  say, 
Swear  to  me  thou  wilt  love  me  ev'n  when  old, 
Gray-haired,  and  past  desire,  and  in  despair." 

Then  Tristram,  pacing  moodily  up  and  down, 
"Vows!  did  ye  keep  the  vow  ye  made  to  Mark 
More  than  I  mine  ?    Lied,  say  ye  ?    Nay,  but  learnt, 
The  vow  that  binds  too  strictly  snaps  itself— 
My  knighthood  taught  me  this— ay,  being  snapt — 
We  run  more  counter  to  the  soul  thereof 
Than  had  we  never  sworn.    I  swear  no  more. 

1  swore  to  the  great  King,  and  am  forsworn. 
For  once— ev'n  to  the  height— I  honor'd  him. 

'  Man,  is  he  man  at  all  ?'  methought,  when  first 
I  rode  from  our  rough  Lyonesse,  and  beheld 
That  victor  of  the  Pagan  throned  in  hall — 
His  hair,  a  sun  that  ray'd  from  off  a  brow 
Like  hillsnow  high  in  heaven,  the  steel-blue  eyes, 


The  golden  beard  that  clothed  his  lips  with  light — 
Moreover,  that  weird  legend  of  his  birth, 
With  Merlin's  mystic  babble  about  his  end 
Amazed  me;  then,  his  foot  waa  on  a  stool 
Shaped  as  a  dragon ;  he  seem'd  to  me  no  man, 
But  Michael  trampling  Satan ;  so  I  sware, 
Being  amazed :  but  this  went  by — the  vows  ! 
O  ay — the  wholesome  madness  of  an  hour — 
They  served  their  use,  their  time ;  for  every  knight 
Believed  himself  a  greater  than  himself, 
And  every  follower  eyed  him  as  a  God ; 
Till  he,  being  lifted  up  beyond  himself, 
Did  mightier  deeds  than  elsewise  he  had  done, 
And  so  the  realm  was  made ;  but  then  their  rows- 
First  mainly  thro'  that  sallying  of  our  Queen — 
Began  to  gall  the  knighthood,  asking  whence 
Had  Arthur  right  to  bind  them  to  himself? 
Dropt  down  from  heaven  ?  wash'd  up  from  out  the 

deep 

They  fail'd  to  trace  bin  thro'  the  flesh  and  blood 
Of  our  old  Kings:  whence  then?  a  doubtful  lord 
To  bind  them  by  inviolable  vows, 
Which  flesh  and  blood  perforce  would  violate: 
For  feel  this  arm  of  mine — the  tide  within 
Red  with  free  chase  and  heather-scented  air, 
Pulsing  full  man ;  can  Arthur  make  me  pure 
As  any  maiden  child?  lock  up  my  tongue 
From  uttering  freely  what  I  freely  hear? 
Bind  me  to  one?    The  great  world  laughs  at  it. 
And  worldling  of  the  world  am  I,  and  know 
The  ptarmigan  that  whitens  ere  his  hour 
Wooes  his  own  end ;  we  are  not  angels  here 
Nor  shall  be :  vows — I  am  woodman  of  the  wood*, 
And  hear  the  garnet-headed  yaftlngale 
Mock  them :  my  soul,  we  love  but  while  we  may, 
And  therefore  is  my  love  so  large  for  thee, 
Seeing  it  is  not  bounded  save  by  love." 

Here  ending,  he  moved  toward  her,  and  she  said, 
"Good:  an  I  tnrn'd  away  my  love  for  thee 
To  some  one  thrice  as  courteous  as  thyself — 
For  courtesy  wins  woman  all  as  well 
As  valor  may — but  he  that  closes  both 
Is  perfect,  he  is  Lancelot— taller  indeed, 
Rosier,  and  comelier,  thou— but  say  I  loved 
This  knightliest  of  all  knights,  and  cast  thee  back 
Thine  own  small  saw,  '  We  love  but  while  we  may,' 
Well  thenrwhat  answer?" 

He  that  while  she  spake, 

Mindful  of  what  he  brought  to  adorn  her  with. 
The  jewels,  had  let  one  finger  lightly  touch 
The  warm  white  apple  of  her  throat,  replied, 
"Press  this  a  little  closer,  sweet,  until — 
Come,  I  am  hunger'd  and  half  anger'd — meat, 
Wine,  wine — and  I  will  love  tbee  to  the  death, 
And  out  beyond  into  the  dream  to  come." 

So  then,  when  both  were  brought  to  full  accord, 
She  rose,  and  set  before  him  all  he  will'd ; 
And  after  these  had  comforted  the  blood 
With  meats  and  wines,  and  satiated  their  hearts — 
Now  talking  of  their  woodland  paradise, 
The  deer,  the  dews,  the  fern,  the  founts,  the  lawns ; 
Now  mocking  at  the  much  ungainliness, 
And  craven  shifts,  and  long  crane  legs  of  Mark — 
Then  Tristram  laughing  caught  the  harp,  and  sang: 
"Ay,  ay,  O  ay — the  winds  that  bend  the  brier! 
A  star  in  heaven,  a  star  within  the  mere ! 
Ay,  ay,  O  ay— a  star  was  my  desire ; 
And  one  was  far  apart,  and  one  was  near : 
Ay,  ay,  O  ay — the  winds  that  bow  the  grass ! 
And  one  was  water  and  one  star  was  fire, 
And  one  will  ever  shine  and  one  will  pass- 
Ay,  ay,  O  ay — the  winds  that  move  the  mere." 

Then  in  the  light's  last  glimmer  Tristram  show'd 
And  swung  the  ruby  carcauet.    She  cried, 
"  The  collar  of  some  order,  which  our  King 


262 


THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT. 


Hath  newly  founded,  all  for  thee,  my  soul, 

For  thee,  to  yield  thee  grace  beyond  thy  peers." 

"Not  so,  my  Queen,"  he  said,  "but  the  red  fruit 
Grown  on  a  magic  oak-tree  in  mid-heaven 
And  won  by  Tristram  as  a  tourney-prize, 
And  hither  brought  by  Tristram,  for  his  last 
Love-offering  and  peace-offering  unto  thee." 

He  rose,  he  tnrn'd,  and  flinging  round  her  neck, 
Claspt  it ;  but  while  he  bow'd  himself  to  lay 
Warm  kisses  in  the  hollow  of  her  throat, 
Out  of  the  dark,  just  as  the  lips  had  touch'd, 


Behind  him  rose  a  shadow  and  a  shriek — 
"Mark's  way,"  said  Mark,  and  clove  him  thro'  the 
brain. 

That  night  came  Arthur  home,  and  while  he  climb'd, 
All  in  a  death-dumb  Autumn-dripping  gloom, 
The  stairway  to  the  hall,  and  look'd  and  saw 
The  great  Queen's  bower  was  dark, — about  his  feet 
A  voice  clung  sobbiug  till  he  question'd  it, 
"What  art  thou?"  and  the  voice  about  his  feet 
Sent  up  an  answer,  sobbing,  "  I  am  thy  fool, 
And  I  shall  never  make  thee  smile  again." 


"I  am  thy  fool, 
And  1  shall  never  make  thee  smile  again." 


GAEETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


263 


GARETH   AND    LYNETTE.' 


TIIE  last  tall  son  of  Lot  and  Bellicent, 

And  tallest,  Gareth,  in  a  showerful  spring 

Stared  at  the  spate.    A  slender-shafted  Pine 

Lost  footing,  fell,  and  so  was  whirl'd  away. 

"  How  he  went  down,"  said  Gareth,  "  as  a  false  knight 

Or  evil  king  before  my  lance,  if  lance 

Were  mine  to  use — O  senseless  cataract, 

Bearing  all  down  in  thy  precipitancy— 

And  yet  thon  art  but  swollen  with  cold  snows, 

And  mine  is  living  blood:  thou  dost  His  will, 

The  Maker's,  and  not  knowest,  and  I  that  know, 

Have  strength  and  wit,  in  my  good  mother's  hall 

Linger  with  vacillating  obedience, 

Prison'd,  and  kept  and  coax'd  and  whistl'd  to — 

Since  the  good  mother  holds  me  still  a  child — 

Good  mother  is  bad  mother  unto  me ! 

A  worse  were  better;  yet  no  worse  would  I. 

Heaven  yield  her  for 'it,  but  in  me  put  force 

To  weary  her  ears  with  one  continuous  prayer, 

Until  she  let  me  fly  discaged  to  sweep 

In  ever-highering  eagle  circles  up 

To  the  great  Sun  of  Glory,  and  thence  swoop 

Down  upon  all  things  base,  and  dash  them  dead, 

A  knight  of  Arthur,  working  out  his  will, 

To  cleanse  the  world.    Why,  Gawain,  when  he  came 

With  Modred  hither  in  the  summer-time, 

Ask'd  me  to  tilt  with  him,  the  proven  knight. 

Modred  for  want  of  worthier  was  the  judge. 

Then  I  so  shook  him  in  the  saddle,  he  said, 

'Thou  hast  half  prevail'd  against  me,'  sa'id  so — he— 

Tho'  Modred  biting  his  thin  lips  was  mute, 

For  he  is  always  sullen :  what  care  I  ?" 

And  Gareth  went,  and  hovering  round  her  chair 
Ask'd,  "Mother,  tho'  ye  count  me  still  the  child, 
Sweet  mother,  do  ye  love  the  child  ?"    She  laugh'd, 
"  Thou  art  but  a  wild  goose  to  question  it." 
"Then,  mother,  an  ye  love  the  child,"  he  said, 
"Being  a  goose  and  rather  tame  than  wild, 
Hear  the  child's  story-"    "Yea,  my  well-beloved, 
An  't  were  but  of  the  goose  and  golden  eggs." 

And  Gareth  answered  her  with  kindling  eyes, 
"Nay,  nay,  good  mother,  but  this  egg  of  mine 
Was  finer  gold  than  any  goose  can  lay ; 
For  this  an  Eagle,  a  royal  Eagle,  laid 
Almost  beyond  eye-reach,  on  such  a  palm 
As  glitters  gilded  in  thy  Book  of  Hours. 
And  there  was  ever  haunting  round  the  palm 
A  lusty  youth,  but  poor,  who  often  saw 
The  splendor  sparkling  from  aloft,  and  thought 
'An  I  could  climb  and  lay  my  hand  upon  it, 
Then  were  I  wealthier  than  a  leash  of  kings.' 
But  ever  when  he  reach'd  a  hand  to  climb, 
One,  that  had  loved  him  from  his  childhood,  caught 
And  stay'd  him,  'Climb  not  lest  thou  break  thy 

neck, 

I  charge  thee  by  my  love,'  and  so  the  boy, 
Sweet  mother,  neither  clomb,  nor  brake  his  neck, 
But  brake  his  very  heart  in  pining  for  it, 
And  past  away." 

To  whom  the  mother  said, 

"  True  love,  sweet  sou,  had  risked  himself  and  climb'd, 
And  handed  down  the  golden  treasure  to  him." 

*  This  poem,  which  concludes  the  "  Idylls  of  the  KiDg,"  follows 
"  The  Coming  of  Arthur." 


And  Gareth  answer'd  her  with  kindling  eyes, 
"  Gold  ?  said  I  gold  ? — ay  then,  why  he,  or  she, 
Or  whosoe'er  it  was,  or  half  the  world 
Had  ventured — had  the  thing  I  spake  of  been 
Mere  gold — but  this  was  all  of  that  true  steel, 
Whereof  they  forged  the  brand  Excalibur, 
And  lightnings  play'd  about  it  in  the  storm, 
And  all  the  little  fowl  were  flurried  at  it, 
And  there  were  cries  and  clashings  in  the  nest, 
That  sent  him  from  his  senses:  let  me  go." 

Then  Bellicent  bemoan'd  herself  and  said, 
"Hast  thou  no  pity  upon  my  loneliness? 
Lo,  where  thy  father  Lot  beside  the  hearth 
Lies  like  a  log,  and  all  but  smoulder'd  out ! 
For  ever  since  when  traitor  to  the  King 
He  fought  against  him  in  the  Barons'  war, 
And  Arthur  gave  him  back  his  territory, 
His  age  hath  slowly  droopt,  and  now  lies  there 
A  yet-warm  corpse,  and  yet  unburiable, 
No  more  ;  nor  sees,  nor  hears,  nor  speaks,  nor  knows. 
And  both  thy  brethren  are  in  Arthur's  hall, 
Albeit  neither  loved  with  that  full  love 
I  feel  for  thee,  nor  worthy  such  a  love: 
Stay  therefore  thou ;  red  berries  charm  the  bird, 
And  thee,  mine  innocent,  the  jousts,  the  wars, 
Who  never  knewest.  finger-ache,  nor  pang 
Of  wrench'd  or  broken  limb — an  often  chance 
In  those  brain-stnnning  shocks,  and  tourney-falls, 
Frights  to  my  heart;  but  stay:  follow  the  deer 
By  these  tall  firs  and  our  fast-falling  burns ; 
So  make  thy  mr.nhood  mightier  day  by  day; 
Sweet  is  the  chase :  and  I  will  seek  thee  out 
Some  comfortable  bride  and  fair,  to  grace 
Thy  climbing  life,  and  cherish  my  prone  year, 
Till  falling  into  Lot's  forgetfulness 
I  know  not  thee,  myself,  nor  any  thing. 
Stay,  my  best  son!  ye  are  yet  more  boy  than  man.- 

Then  Gareth,  "An  ye  hold  me  yet  for  child, 
Hear  yet  once  more  the  story  of  the  child. 
For,  mother,  there  was  once  a  King,  like  ours; 
The  prince  his  heir,  when  tall  and  marriageable, 
Ask'd  for  a  bride;  and  thereupon  the  King 
Set  two  before  him.    One  was  fair,  strong,  arm'd— 
But  to  be  won  by  force — and  many  men 
Desired  her;  one,  good  lack,  no  man  desired. 
And  these  were  the  conditions  of  the  King: 
That  save  he  won  the  first  by  force,  he  needs 
Must  wed  that  dther,  whom  no  man  desired, 
A  red-faced  bride  who  knew  herself  so  vile, 
That  evermore  she  longed  to  hide  herself, 
Nor  fronted  man  or  woman,  eye  to  eye — 
Yea — some  she  cleaved  to,  but  they  died  of  her. 
And  one — they  call'd  her  Fame ;  and  one,  O  Mother, 
How  can  ye  keep  me  tether'd  to  yon — Shame ! 
Man  am  I  grown,  a  man's  work  must  I  do. 
Follow  the  deer?  follow  the  Christ,  the  King, 
Live  pure,  speak  true,  right  wrong,  follow  the  King — 
Else,  wherefore  born  ?" 

To  whom  the  mother  said, 

"Sweet  son,  for  there  be  many  who  deem  him  not, 
Or  will  not  deem  him,  wholly  proven  King — 
Albeit  in  mine  own  heart  I  knew  him  King, 
When  I  was  freqnent  with  him  in  my  youth, 
And  heard  him  Kingly  speak,  and  doubted  him 
No  more  than  he,  himself;  but  felt  him  mine, 


264 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


Of  closest  kin  to  me :  yet — wilt  thou  leave 
Thiue  easeful  biding  here,  and  risk  thine  all, 
Life,  limbs,  for  one  that  is  not  proven  King? 
Stay,  till  the  cloud  that  settles  rouud  his  birth  . 
Hath  lifted  but  a  little.    Stay,  sweet  son." 

And  Gareth  answer'd  quickly,  "Not  an  hour, 
So  that  ye  yield  roe— I  will  walk  thro'  fire, 
Mother,  to  gain  it — your  full  leave  to  go. 
Not  proven,  who  swept  the  dust  of  ruiu'd  Rome 
From  off  the  threshold  of  the  realm,  and  crush'd 
The  idolaters,  and  made  the  people  free? 
Who  should  be  king  save  him  who  makes  us  free  ?" 

So  when  the  Queen,  who  long  had  sought  in  vain 
To  break  him  from  the  intent  to  which  he  grew, 
Found  her  son's  will  unwaveringly  one, 
She  answer'd  craftily,  "Will  ye  walk  thro'  fire? 
Who  walks  thro'  fire  will  hardly  heed  the  smoke. 
Ay,  go  then,  an  ye  must :  only  one  proof, 
Before  thou  ask  the  King  to  make  thee  knight, 
Of  thine  obedience  and  thy  love  to  me, 
Thy  mother,— I  demand." 

And  Gareth  cried, 

"A  hard  one,  or  a  hundred,  so  I  go. 
Nay — quick !  the  proof  to  prove  me  to  the  quick  I" 

But  slowly  spake  the  mother,  looking  at  him, 
"  Prince,  thon  shall  go  disguised  to  Arthur's  hall, 
And  hire  thyself  to  serve  for  meats  and  drin.ks 
Among  the  scullions  and  the  kitchen  knaves, 
And  those  that  hand  the  dish  across  the  bar. 
Nor  shalt  thou  tell  thy  name  to  any  one. 
And  thou  shall  serve  a  twelvemonth  and  a  day." 

For  so  the  Queen  believed  that  when  her  son 
Beheld  his  only  way  to  glory  lead 
Low  down  thro'  villain  kitchen-vassalage, 
Her  own  true  Gareth  was  too  princely-proud 
To  pass  thereby ;  so  should  he  rest  with  her. 
Closed  in  her  castle  from  the  sound  of  arms. 

Silent  awhile  was  Gareth,  then  replied, 
"The  thrall  in  person  may  be  free  in  soul, 
And  I  shall  see  the  jousts.    Thy  son  am  I, 
And  since  thou  art  my  mother,  must  obey. 
I  therefore  yield  me  freely  to  thy  will; 
For  hence  will  I,  disguised,  and  hire  myself 
To  serve  with  scullions  and  with  kitchen-knaves ; 
Nor  tell  my  name  to  any — no,  not  the  King." 

Gareth  awhile  linger'd.    The  mother's  eye 
Full  of  the  wistful  fear  that  he  would  go, 
And  turning  toward  him  wheresoe'er  he  tnrn'd, 
Perplext  his  outward  purpose,  till  an  hour, 
When  waken'd  by  the  wind  which  with  full  voice 
Swept  bellowing  thro'  the  darkness  on  to  dawn, 
He  rose,  and  out  of  slumber  calling  two 
That  still  had  tended  on  him  fronagbis  birth, 
Before  the  wakeful  mother  heard  him,  went. 

The  three  were  clad  like  tillers  of  the  soil. 
Southward  they  set  their  faces.    The  birds  made 
Melody  on  branch,  and  melody  in  mid  air. 
The  damp  hill-slopes  were  quicken'd  into  green, 
And  the  live  green  had  kindled  into  flowers, 
For  it  was  past  the  time  of  Easterday. 
So,  when  their  feet  were  planted  on  the  plain 
That  broaden'd  toward  the  base  of  Camelot, 
Far  off  they  saw  the  silver-misty  morn 
Rolling  her  smoke  about  the  royal  mount, 
That  rose  between  the  forest  and  the  field. 
At  times  the  summit  of  the  high  city  flash'd ; 
At  times  the  spires  and  turrets  half-way  down 
Prick'd  thro'  the  mist ;  at  times  the  great  gate  shone 
Only,  that  open'd  on  the  field  below : 
Anon,  the  whole  fair  city  had  disappear'd. 


Then  those  who  went  with  Gareth  were  amazed, 
One  crying,  "Let  us  go  no  farther,  lord. 
Here  is  a  city  of  Enchanters,  built 
By  fairy  Kings."    The  second  echo'd  him, 
",Lord,  we  have  heard  from  our  wise  men  at  home 
To  Northward,  that  this  King  is  not  the  King, 
But  only  changeling  out  of  Fairyland, 
Who  drave  the  heathen  hence  by  sorcery 
And  Merlin's  glamour."    Then  the  first  again, 
"Lord,  there  is  no  such  city  anywhere, 
But  all  a  vision." 

Gareth  answer'd  them 

With  laughter,  swearing  he  had  glamour  enow 
In  his  own  blood,  his  princedom,  youth  and  hopes, 
To  plunge  old  Merlin  in  the  Arabian  Sea; 
So  push'd  them  all  unwilling  toward  the  gate. 
And  there  was  no  gate  like  it  under  heaven ; 
For  barefoot  on  the  key-stone,  which  was  lined 
And  rippled  like  an  ever-fleeting  wave, 
The  Lady  of  the  Lake  stood  :  all  her  dress 
Wept  from  her  sides  as  water  flowing  away: 
But  like  the  cross  her  great  and  goodly  arms 
Stretch'd  under  all  the  cornice  and  upheld: 
And  drops  of  water  fell  from  either  hand ; 
And  down  from  one  a  sword  was  hung,  from  one 
A  censer,  either  worn  with  wind  and  storm ; 
And  o'er  her  breast  floated  the  sacred  fish ; 
And  in  the  space  to  left  of  her,  and  right, 
Were  Arthur's  wars  in  weird  devices  done, 
New  things  and  old  co-twisted,  as  if  Time 
Were  nothing,  so  inveterately,  that  men 
Were  giddy  gazing  there;  and  over  all 
High  on  the  top  were  those  three  Queens,  the  friends 
Of  Arthur,  who  should  help  him  at  his  need. 

Then  those  with  Gareth  for  so  long  a  space 
Stared  at  the  figures,  that  at  last  it  seem'd 
The  dragon-boughts  and  elfish  emblemiugs 
Began  to  move,  seethe,  twine,  and  curl :  they  call'd 
To  Gareth,  "Lord,  the  gateway  is  alive." 

And  Gareth  likewise  on  them  flxt  his  eyes 
So  long,  that  ev'n  to  him  they  seem'd  to  move. 
Out  of  the  city  a  blast  of  music  peal'd. 
Back  from  the  gate  started  the  three,  to  whom 
From  out  thereunder  came  an  ancient  man, 
Long-bearded,  saying,  "Who  be  ye,  my  sons?" 

Then  Gareth,  "  We  be  tillers  of  the  soil, 
Who  leaving  share  in  furrow  come  to  see 
The  glories  of  our  King :  but  these,  my  men, 
(Your  city  moved  so  weirdly  in  the  mist,) 
Doubt  if  the  King  be  King  at  all,  or  come 
From  fairyland ;  and  whether  this  be  built 
By  magic,  and  by  fairy  Kings  and  Queens  ; 
Or  whether  there  be  any  city  at  all, 
Or  all  a  vision :  and  this  music  now 
Hath  scared  them   both,  but   tell  thou  these    the 
truth." 

Then  that  old  Seer  made  answer  playing  on  him 
And  saying,  "  Son,  I  have  seen  the  good  ship  sail 
Keel  upward  and  mast  downward  in  the  heavens, 
And  solid  turrets  topsy-turvy  in  air: 
And  here  is  truth;  but  an  it  please  thee  not, 
Take  thon  the  truth  as  thou  hast  told  it  me. 
For  truly,  as  thou  sayest,  a  Fairy  King 
And  Fairy  Queens  have  built  the  city,  son  ; 
They  came  from  out  a  sacred  mountain-cleft 
Toward  the  sunrise,  each  with  harp  in  hand, 
And  built  it  to  the  music  of  their  harps. 
And  as  thou  sayest  it  is  enchanted,  son, 
For  there  is  nothing  in  it  as  it  seems 
Saving  the  King ;  tho'  some  there  be  that  hold 
The  King  a  shadow,  and  the  city  real: 
Yet  take  thou  heed  of  him,  for,  so  thou  pass 
Beneath  this  archway,  then  wilt  thou  become 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


2(55 


A  thrall  to  his  enchantments,  for  the  King 
Will  bind  thee  by  such  vows,  as  is  a  shame 
A  man  should  not  be  bound  by,  yet  the  which 
No  man  can  keep ;  but,  so  thou  dread  to  swear, 
Pass  not  beneath  this  gateway,  but  abide 
Without,  among  the  cattle  of  the  field. 
For,  an  ye  heard  a  music,  like  enow 
They  are  building  still,  seeing  the  city  is  built 
To  mnsic,  therefore  never  built  at  all, 
And  therefore  built  forever." 

Gareth  spake 

Auger'd,  "Old  Master,  reverence  thine  own  beard 
That  looks  as  white  as  utter  truth,  and  seems 
Wellnigh  as  long  as  thon  art  statured  tall ! 
Why  mockest  thou  the  stranger  that  hath  been 
To  thee  fair-spoken  ?" 

But  the  Seer  replied, 

"Know  ye  not  then  the  Riddling  of  the  Bards? 
'Confusion,  and  illusion,  and  relation, 
Elusion,  and  occasion,  and  evasion  ?' 
I  mock  thee  not  but  as  thou  mockest  me, 
And  all  that  see  thee,  for  thou  art  not  who 
Thou  seemest,  but  I  know  thee  who  thou  art. 
And  now  thou  goest  up  to  mock  the  King, 
Who  can  not  brook  the  shadow  of  any  lie." 

Unmockingly  the  mocker  ending  here 
Turn'd  to  the  right,  and  past  along  the  plain ; 
Whom  Gareth  looking  after  said,  "My  men, 
Our  one  white  lie  sits  like  a  little  ghost 
Here  on  the  threshold  of  our  enterprise. 
Let  love  be  blamed  for  it,  not  she,  nor  I : 
Well,  we  will  make  amends." 

With  all  good  cheer 

He  spake  and  laugh 'd,  then  euter'd  with  his  twain 
Camelot,  a  city  of  shadowy  palaces, 
And  stately,  rich  in  emblem  and  the  work 
Of  ancient  kings  who  did  their  days  in  stone ; 
Which  Merlin's  hand,  the  Mage  at  Arthur's  court, 
Knowing  all  arts,  had  tonch'd,  and  everywhere 
At  Arthur's  ordinance,  tipt  with  lessening  peak 
And  pinnacle,  and  had  made  it  spire  to  heaven. 
And  ever  and  anon  a  knight  would  pass 
Outward,  or  inward  to  the  hall :  his  arms 
Clash'd ;  and  the  sound  was  good  to  Gareth's  ear. 
And  out  of  bower  and  casement  shyly  glanced 
Eyes  of  pure  women,  wholesome  stars  of  love  ; 
Aud  all  about  a  healthful  people  slept 
As  in  the  presence  of  a  gracious  king. 

Then  into  hall  Gareth  ascending  heard 
A  voice,  the  voice  of  Arthur,  and  beheld 
Far  over  heads  in  that  long-vaulted  hall 
The  splendor  of  the  presence  of  the  King 
Throned,  and  delivering  doom — and  look'd  no  more— 
But  felt  his  young  heart  hammering  in  his  ears, 
And  thought,  "For  this  half-shadow  of  a  lie 
The  truthful  King  will  doom  me  when  I  speak." 
Yet  pressing  on,  tho'  all  in  fear  to  find 
Sir  Gawain  or  Sir  Modred,  saw  nor  one 
Nor  other,  but  in  all  the  listening  eyes 
Of  those  tall  knights,  that  ranged  about  the  throne, 
Clear  honor  shining  like  the  dewy  star 
Of  dawn,  and  faith  in  their  great  King,  with  pure 
Affection,  and  the  light  of  victory, 
And  glory  gain'd,  and  evermore  to  gain. 

Then  came  a  widow  crying  to  the  King, 
"A  boon,  Sir  King!    Thy  father,  Uther,  reft 
From  my  dead  lord  a  field  with  violence: 
For  howsoe'er  at  first  he  proffer'd  gold, 
Yet,  for  the  field  was  pleasant  in  our  eyes, 
We  yielded  not;  and  then  he  reft  us  of  it 
Perforce,  and  left  us  neither  gold  nor  field." 


Said  Arthur,  "Whether  would  ye?  gold  or  field?" 
To  whom  the  woman  weeping,  "Nny,  my  lord, 
The  field  was  pleasant  in  my  husband's  eye." 

Aud  Arthur,  "  Have  thy  pleasant  field  again, 
And  thrice  the  gold  for  Uther's  use  thereof, 
According  to  the  years.    No  boon  is  here, 
But  justice,  so  thy  say  be  proven  true. 
Accursed,  who  from  the  wrongs  his  father  did 
Would  shape  himself  a  right !" 

And  while  she  past, 

Came  yet  another  widow  crying  to  him, 
"A  boon,  Sir  King!    Thine  enemy,  King,  am  I. 
With  thine  own  hand  thou  slewest  my  dear  lord, 
A  knight  of  Uther  in  the  Barons'  war, 
When  Lot  and  many  another  rose  and  fought 
Against  thee,  saying  thou  wert  basely  born. 
I  held  with  these,  and  loathe  to  ask  thee  aught. 
Yet  lo !  my  husband's  brother  had  my  son 
Thralled  in  his  castle,  and  hath  starved  him  dead ; 
And  standeth  seized  of  that  inheritance 
Which  thou  that  slewest  the  sire  hast  left  the  son. 
So  tho'  I  scarce  can  ask  it  thee  for  hate, 
Grant  me  some  knight  to  do  the  battle  for  me, 
Kill  the  foul  thief,  and  wreak  me  for  my  son." 

Then  strode  a  good  knight  forward,  crying  to  him, 
"A  boon,  Sir  King!    I  am  her  kinsman,  I. 
Give  me  to  right  her  wrong,  and  slay  the  man." 

Then  came  Sir  Kay,  the  seneschal,  and  cried, 
"A  boon,  Sir  King!  ev'n  that  thou  grant  her  none, 
This  railcr,  that  hath  mock'd  thee  in  full  hail- 
None  ;  or  the  wholesome  boon  of  gyve  and  gag." 

But  Arthur,  "  We  sit,  King,  to  help  the  wrong'd 
Thro'  all  onr  realm.    The  woman  loves  her  lord. 
Peace  to  thee,  woman,  with  thy  loves  and  hates ! 
The  kings  of  old  had  doomed  thee  to  the  flames 
Aurelius  Emrys  would  have  scourged  thee  de;id, 
Aud  Uther  slit  thy  tongue:  but  get  thee  hence— 
Lest  that  rough  humor  of  the  kings  of  old 
Return  upon  me !    Thou  that  art  her  kin, 
Go  likewise;  lay  him  low  and  slay  him  not, 
But  bring  him  here,  that  I  may  judge  the  right, 
According  to  the  justice  of  the  King: 
Then,  be  be  guilty,  by  that  deathless  King 
Who  lived  and  died  for  men,  the  man  shall  die." 

Then  came  in  hall  the  messenger  of  Mark, 
A  name  of  evil  savor  in  the  land, 
The  Cornish  king.    In  either  hand  he  bore 
What  dazzled  all,  and  shone  far-off  as  shines 
A  field  of  charlock  in  the  sudden  sun 
Between  two  showers,  a  cloth  of  palest  gold, 
Which  down  he  laid  before  the  throne,  and  knelt, 
Delivering  that  his  Lord,  the  vassal  king, 
Was  ev'n  upon  his  way  to  Camelot; 
For  having  heard  that  Arthur  of  his  grace 
Had  made  his  goodly  cousin,  Tristram,  knight, 
And,  for  himself  was  of  the  greater  state, 
Being  a  king,  he  trusted  his  liege-lord 
Would  yield  him  this  large  honor  all  the  more : 
So  pray'd  him  well  to  accept  this  cloth  of  gold, 
In  token  of  true  heart  and  fealty. 

Then  Arthur  cried  to  rend  the  cloth,  to  rend 
In  pieces,  and  so  cast  it  on  the  hearth. 
An  oak-tree  smoulder'd  there.     "  The  goodly  knight ! 
What !  shall  the  shield  of  Mark  stand  among  these  ?" 
For,  midway  down  the  side  of  that  long  hall 
A  stately  pile, — whereof  along  the  front, 
Some  blazon'd,  some  but  carven,  and  some  blank, 
There  ran  a  treble  range  of  stony  shields,— 
Rose,  and  high-arching  overbrow'd  the  hearth. 
And  under  every  shield  a  knight  was  named: 
For  this  was  Arthur's  custom  in  his  hall ; 


266 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


When  some  good  knight  had  done  one  noble  deed, 
His  arms  were  carven  only ;  but  if  twain 
His  arms  were  blazon'd  also ;  bat  if  none 
The  shield  was  blank  and  bare  without  Si  sign  . 
Saving  the  name  beneath;  and  Gareth  saw 
The  shield  of  Gawain  blazon'd  rich  and  bright, 
And  Modred's  blank  as  death;  and  Arthur  cried 
To  rend  the  cloth  and  cast  it  on  the  hearth. 

"More  like  are  we  to  reave  him  of  his  crown 
Than  make  him  knight  because  meu  call  him  king. 
The  kings  we  found,  ye  know  we  stay'd  their  hands 
From  war  among  themselves,  but  left  them  kings ; 
Of  whom  were  any  bounteous,  merciful, 
Truth-speaking,  brave,  good  livers,  them  we  enroll'd 
Among  us,  arid  they  sit  within  our  hall. 
But  Mark  hath  tarnish'd  the  great  name  of  king, 
As  Mark  would  sully  the  low  state  of  churl: 
And,  seeing  he  hath  sent  us  cloth  of  gold, 
Return,  and  meet,  and  hold  him  from  our  eyes, 
Lest  we  should  lap  him  up  in  cloth  of  lead, 
Silenced  forever — craven — a  man  of  plots, 
Craft,  poisonous  counsels,  wayside  ambushings — 
No  fault  of  thine :  let  Kay,  the  seneschal, 
Look  to  thy  wants,  and  send  thee  satisfied — 
Accursed,  who  strikes  nor  let's  the  hand  be  seen  !" 

And  many  another  suppliant  crying  came 
With  noise  of  ravage  wrought  by  beast  and  man, 
And  evermore  a  knight  would  ride  away. 

Last  Gareth  leaning  both  hands  heavily 
Down  on  the  shoulders  of  the  twain,  his  men, 
Approach'd  between  them  toward  the  King,  and  ask'd, 
"A  boon,  Sir  King  (his  voice  was  all  ashamed), 
For  see  ye  not  how  weak  and  hungerworn 
I  seem— leaning  on  these?  grant  me  to  serve 
For  meat  and  drink  among  thy  kitchen-knaves 
A  twelvemonth  and  a  day,  nor  seek  my  name. 
Hereafter  I  will  fight." 

To  him  the  King, 

"A  goodly  yonth  and  worth  a  goodlier  boon! 
But  an  thon  wilt  no  goodlier,  then  must  Kay, 
The  master  of  the  meats  and  drinks  be  thine." 

He  rose  and  past :  then  Kay,  a  man  of  mein, 
Wan-sallow  as  the  plant  that  feels  itself 
Root-bitten  by  white  lichen, 

"Lo  ye  now! 

This  fellow  hath  broken  from  some  Abbey,  where, 
God  wot,  he  had  not  beef  and  brewis  enow, 
However  that  might  chance !  but  an  he  work, 
Like  any  pigeon  will  I  cram  his  crop, 
And  sleeker  shall  he  shine  than  any  hog." 

Then  Lancelot  standing  near,  "Sir  Seneschal, 
Slenth- hound  thou  knowest,  and  gray,  and  all  the 

hounds ; 

A  horse  thou  knowest,  a  man  thon  dost  not  know: 
Broad  brows  and  fair,  a  fluent  hair  and  fine, 
High  nose,  a  nostril  large  and  fine,  and  hands 
Large,  fair  and  fine !    Some  young  lad's  mystery — 
But,  or  from  sheepcot  or  king's  hall,  the  boy 
Is  noble-natured.    Treat  him  with  all  grace, 
Lest  he  should  come  to  shame  thy  judging  of  him." 

Then  Kay,  "What  murmurest  thon  of  mystery? 
Think  ye  this  fellow  will  poison  the  King's  dish? 
Nay,  for  he  spake  too  fool-like:  mystery! 
Tut,  an  the  lad  were  noble,  he  had  ask'd 
For  horse  and  armor:  fair  and  fine,  forsooth! 
Sir  Fine-face,  Sir  Fair-hands?  but  see  thou  to  it 
That  thine  own  fineness,  Lancelot,  some  fine  day 
Undo  thee  not — and  leave  my  man  to  me." 

So  Gareth  all  for  glory  underwent 


The  sooty  yoke  of  kitchen  vassalage ; 
Ate  with  young  lads  his  portion  by  the  door, 
And  couch'd  at  night  with  grimy  kitchen-knave;. 
And  Lancelot  ever  spake  him  pleasantly, 
But  Kay  the  seneschal  who  loved  him  not 
Would  hustle  and  harry  him,  and  labor  him 
Beyond  his  comrade  of  the  hearth,  aud  set 
To  turn  the  broach,  draw  water,  or  hew  wood, 
Or  grosser  tasks:  and  Gareth  bow'd  himself 

>  With  all  obedience  to  the  King,  and  wrought 

1  All  kind  of  service  with  a  noble  ease 
That  graced  the  lowliest  act  in  doing  it. 
And  when  the  thralls  had  talk  among  themselves, 

;  Aud  one  would  praise  the  love  that  linkt  the  King- 
And  Lancelot — how  the  King  had  saved  his  life 

j  In  battle  twice,  and  Lancelot  once  the  King's— 
For  Lancelot  was  the  first  in  Tournament, 
But  Arthur  mightiest  on  the  battle-field— 
Gareth  was  glad.    Or  if  some  other  told, 
How  once  the  wandering  forester  at  dawn, 
Far  over  the  blue  tarns  and  hazy  eeas, 
On  Caer-Eryri's  highest  found  the  King, 
A  naked  babe,  of  whom  the  Prophet  spake, 
"  He  passes  to  the  Isle  Avilion, 
He  passes  and  is  heal'd  and  cau  not  die" — 
Gareth  was  glad.    But  if  their  talk  were  foul, 
Then  would  he  whistle  rapid  as  any  lark, 
Or  carol  some  old  roundelay,  and  so  loud 
That  first  they  mock'd,  but,  after,  reverenced  him. 
Or  Gareth  telling  some  prodigious  tale 
Of  knights,  who  sliced  a  red  life-bubbling  way 
Thro'  twenty  folds  of  twisted  dragon,  held 
All  in  a  gap-mouth'd  circle  his  good  mates 
Lying  or  sitting  round  him,  idle  hands, 
Charm'd;  till  Sir  Kay,  the  seneschal,  would  come 
Blustering  upon  them,  like  a  sudden  wind 
Among  dead  leaves,  and  drive  them  all  apart. 
Or  when  the  thralls  had  sport  among  themselves, 
So  there  were  any  trial  of  mastery, 
He,  by  two  yards  in  casting  bar  or  stone 
Was  counted  best ;  and  if  there  chanced  a  joust, 
So  that  Sir  Kay  nodded  him  leave  to  go, 
Would  hurry  thither,  and  when  he  saw  the  knights 
Clash  like  the  coming  and  retiring  wave, 
And  the  spear  spring,. and  good  horse  reel,  the  boy 
Was  half  beyond  himself  for  ecstasy. 

So  for  a  month  he  wrought  among  the  thralls; 
But  in  the  weeks  that  followed,  the  good  Queen, 
Repentant  of  the  word  she  made  him  swear, 
And  saddening  in  her  childless  castle,  sent, 
Between  the  increscent  and  decrescent  moon, 
Arms  for  her  son,  and  loosed  him  from  his  vow. 

This,  Gareth  hearing  from  a  Squire  of  Lot 
With  whom  he  used  to  play  at  tourney  once, 
When  both  were  children,  and  in  lonely  haunts 
Would  scratch  a  ragged  oval  in  the  sand, 
And  each  at  either  dashed  from  either  end- 
Shame  never  made  a  girl  redder  than  Gareth  joy. 
He  laugh'd ;  he  sprang.    "Out  of  the  smoke,  at  once 
I  leap  from  Satan's  foot  to  Peter's  knee — 
These  news  be  mine,  none  other's — nay,  the  King's — 
Descend  into  the  city;"  whereon  he  sought 
The  King  alone,  and  found,  and  told  him  all. 

"I  have  staggered  thy  strong  Gawain  in  a  tilt 
For  pastime;  yea,  he  said  it:  joust  can  I. 
Make  me  thy  knight— in  secret !  let  my  name 
Be  hidd'n,  and  give  me  the  first  quest,  I  spring 
Like  flame  from  ashes." 

Here  the  King's  calm  eye 

Fell  on,  and  check'd,  and  made  him  flush,  and  bow 
Lowly,  to  kiss  his  hand,  who  answer'd  him, 
"Son,  the  good  mother  let  me  know  thee  here, 
And  sent  her  wish  that  I  would  yield  thee  thine. 
Make  thee  my  knight  ?  my  knights  are  sworn  to  vows 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


Of  utter  hardihood,  utter  gentleness, 
Aud,  loving,  utter  faithfulness  in  love, 
And  uttermost  obedience  to  the  King." 

Then  Garetb,  lightly  springing  from  his  knees, 
"  My  Kiiig,  for  hardihood  I  can  promise  thee. 
For  uttermost  obedience  make  demand 
Of  whom  ye  gave  me  to,  the  Seneschal, 
No  mellow  master  of  the  meats  and  drinks ! 
And  as  for  love,  God  wot,  I  love  not  yet, 
But  love  I  shall,  God  willing." 

And  the*  King— 

"Make  thee  my  knight  in  secret?  yea,  but  he, 
Our  noblest  brother,  and  our  truest  man, 
And  one  with  me  in  all,  he  needs  must  know." 

"Let  Lancelot  know,  my  King,  let  Lancelot  know, 
Thy  noblest  and  thy  truest '.'' 

And  the  King — 

"  But  wherefore  would  ye  men  should  wonder  at  you  ? 
Nay,  rather  for  the  sake  of  me,  their  King, 
And  the  deed's  sake  my  knighthood  do  the  deed, 
Than  to  be  noised  of." 

Merrily  Gareth  ask'd, 

"  Have  I  not  earn'd  my  cake  in  baking  of  it  ? 
Let  be  my  name  until  I  make  my  name  ! 
My  deeds  will  epeak :  it  is  but  for  a  day." 
So  with  a  kindly  hand  on  Gareth's  arm 
Smiled  the  great  King,  and  half-unwillingly 
Loving  his  lusty  youthhood  yielded  to  him. 
Then,  after  summoning  Lancelot  privily, 
"  I  have  given  him  the  first  quest:  he  is  not  proven. 
Look  therefore  when  he  calls  for  this  in  hall, 
Thou  get  to  horse  and  follow  him  far  away. 
Cover  the  lions  on  thy  shield,  and  see 
Far  as  thou  mayest  he  be  nor  ta'en  nor  slain." 

Then  that  same  day  there  past  into  the  hall 
A  damsel  of  high  lineage,  and  a  brow 
May-blossom,  and  a  cheek  of  apple-blossom, 
Hawk-eyes ;  and  lightly  was  her  slender  nose 
Tip-tilted  like  the  petal  of  a  flower; 
She  into  hall  passed  with  her  page  and  cried, 

"O  King,  for  thou  hast  driven  the  foe  without, 
See  to  the  foe  within '.  bridge,  ford,  beset 
By  bandits,  every  one  that  owns  a  tower 
The  Lord  for  half  a  league.    Why  sit  ye  there  ? 
Rest  would  I  not,  Sir  King,  an  I  were  king, 
Till  ev'n  the  lonest  hold  were  all  as  free 
From  cursed  bloodshed,  as  thine  altar-cloth 
From  that  blest  blood  it  is  a  sin  to  spill." 

"Comfort  thyself,"  said  Arthur.    "I  nor  mine 
Rest:  so  my  knighthood  keep  the  vows  they  swore, 
The  wastest  moorland  of  our  realm  shall  be 
Safe,  damsel,  as  the  centre  of  this  hall. 
What  is  thy  name  ?  thy  need  ?" 

"My  name?"  she  said — 

"Lynette  my  name;  noble;  my  need,  a  knight 
To  combat  for  my  sister,  Lyonors, 
A  lady  of  high  lineage,  of  great  lands, 
And  comely,  yea,  and  comelier  than  myself. 
She  lives  in  Castle  Perilous :  a  river 
Runs  in  three  loops  about  her  living  place; 
And  o'er  it  are  three  passings,  and  three  knights 
Defend  the  passings,  brethren,  and  a  fourth 
Aud  of  that  four  the  mightiest,  holds  her  stay'd 
In  her  own  castle  and  so  besieges  her 
To  break  her  will,  and  make  her  wed  with  him  : 
And  but  delays  his  purport  till  thon  send 
To  do  the  battle  with  him,  thy  chief  man 
Sir  Lancelot  whom  he  trusts  to  overthrow, 
Then  wed,  with  glory ;  but  she  will  not  wed 


Save  whom  she  loveth,  or  a  holy  life. 
Now  therefore  have  I  come  for  Lancelot." 

Then  Arthur  mindful  of  Sir  Gareth  ask'd, 
"Damsel,  ye  know  this  Order  lives  to  crush 
All  wrongers  of  the  Realm.    But  say,  these  four, 
Who  be  they  f    WThat  the  fashion  of  the  men  ?'' 

"  They  be  of  foolish  fashion,  O  Sir  King, 
The  fashion  of  that  old  knight-errantry 
Who  ride  abroad  and  do  but  what  they  will ; 
Courteous  or  bestial  from  the  moment, 
Such  as  have  nor  law  nor  king;  and  three  of  these 
Proud  in  their  fantasy  call  themselves  the  Day, 
Morning-Star,  and  Noon-Sun,  and  Evening-Star, 
Being  strong  fools ;  and  never  a  whit  more  wise 
The  fourth,  who  alway  rideth  arm'd  in  black, 
A  huge  man-beast  of  boundless  savagery. 
He  names  himself  the  Night  and  oftener  Death, 
And  wears  a  helmet  mounted  with  a  skull 
Aud  bears  a  skeleton  figured  on  his  arms, 
!  To  show  that  who  may  slay  or  scape  the  three 
Slain  by  himself  shall  enter  endless  night. 
And  all  these  four  be  fools,  but  mighty  men, 
And  therefore  am  I  come  for  Lancelot." 

Hereat  Sir  Gareth  call'd  from  where  he  rose, 
A  head  with  kindling  eyes  above  the  throng, 
j  "A  boon,  Sir  King — this  quest?"  then — for  he  mark'd 
]  Kay  near  him  groaning  like  a  wounded  btill — 
"Yea,  King,  thou  kuowest  thy  kitchen-knave  am  J, 
And  mighty  thro'  thy  meats  and  drinks  am  I, 
Aud  I  can  topple  over  a  hundred  such. 
I  Thy  promise,  King,"  and  Arthur  glancing  at  him 
Brought  down  a  momentary  brow,  "Rough,  sudden, 
And  pardonable,  worthy  to  be  knight- 
Go  therefore,"  and  all  hearers  were  amazed. 

But  on  the  damsel's  forehead  shame,  pride,  wrath, 
Slew  the  May-white:  she  lifted  either  arm, 
"Fie  on  thee,  King!    I  asked  for  thy  chief  knight, 
And  thou  hast  given  me  but  a  kitchen-knave." 
Then  ere  a  man  in  hall  could  stay  her,  tnrn'd, 
Fled  down  the  lane  of  access  to  the  King, 
Took  horse,  descended  the  slope  street,  and  paft 
The  weird  white  gate,  and  paused  without,  beside 
The  field  of  tourney,  murmuring  "kitchen-knave."' 

Now  two  great  entries  open'd  from  the  hall, 
At  one  end  one,  that  gave  upon  a  range 
Of  level  pavement  where  the  King  would  pace 
At  sunrise,  gazing  over  plain  and  wood. 
And  down  from  this  a  lordly  stairway  sloped 
Till  lost  in  blowing  trees  and  tops  of  towers. 
And  out  by  this  main  doorway  past  the  King. 
But  one  was  counter  to  the  hearth,  and  rose 
High  that  the  highest-crested  helm  could  ride 
Therethro'  nor  graze :  and  by  this  entry  fled 
The  damsel  in  her  wrath,  and  on  to  this 
Sir  Gareth  strode,  and  saw  without  the  door 
King  Arthur's  gift,  the  worth  of  half  a  town, 
A  warhorse  of  the  best,  and  near  it  stood 
The  two  that  out  of  north  had  follow'd  him : 
This  bare  a  maiden  shield,  a  casque ;  that  held 
The  horse,  the  spear ;  whereat  Sir  Gareth  loosed 
A  cloak  that  dropt  from  collar-bone  to  heel, 
A  cloth  of  roughest  web,  and  cast  it  down, 
And  from  it  like  a  fuel-smother'd  fire, 
That  lookt  half-dead,  brake   bright,  and  flash'd  as 

those 

Dull-coated  things,  that  making  slide  apart 
Their  dusk  wing-cases,  all  beneath  there  burns 
A  jewel'd  harness,  ere  they  pass  and  fly. 
So  Gareth  ere  he  parted  flash'd  in  arms. 
Then  while  he  donu'd  the  helm,  and  took  the  shield 
i  And  mounted  horse  and  graspt  a  spear,  of  grain 
j  Storm-strengthen'd  on  a  windy  site,  and  tipt 
•  With  trenchant  eteel,  around  him  slowly  prest 


268 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


The  people,  and  from  out  of  kitchen  came 
The  thralls  in  throng,  and  seeing  who  had  work'd 
Lustier  than  any,  and  whom  they  could  but  love, 
Mounted  in  arms,  threw  up  their  caps  and  cried, 
'•God  bless  the  King,  and  all  his  fellowship!" 
And  on  thro'  lanes  of  shouting  Gareth  rode 
Down  the  slope  street,  and  past  without  the  gate 

So  Gareth  past  with  joy;  but  as  the  cur 
Pluckt  from  the  cur  he  fights  with,  ere  his  cause 
Be  cool'd  by  fighting,  follows,  being  named, 
His  owner,  but  remembers  all,  and  growls 
Remembering,  so  Sir  Kay  beside  the  door 
Mutter'd  in  scorn  of  Gareth  whom  he  used 
To  harry  and  hustle. 

"Bound  upon  a  quest 

With  horse  and  arms — the  King  hath  past  hi*  time— 
My  scullion  knave !    Thralls  to  your  work  again, 
For  an  your  fire  be  low  ye  kindle  mine ! 
Will  there  be  dawn  in  West  and  eve  in  Eastt 
Begone !— my  knave !— belike  and  like  enow 
Some  old  head-blow  not  heeded  in  his  youth 
So  shook  his  wits  they  wander  in  his  prime- 
Crazed!    How  the  villain  lifted  up  his  voice, 
Nor  shamed  to  bawl  himself  a  kitchen-knave. 
Tut :  he  was  tame  and  meek  eiiow  with  me, 
Till  peacock'd  up  with  Lancelot's  noticing. 
Well— I  will  after  my  loud  knave,  and  learn 
Whether  he  know  me  for  his  master  yet. 
Oat  of  the  smoke  he  came,  and  so  my  lance 
Hold,  by  God's  grace,  he  shall  into  the  mire- 
Thence,  if  the  King  awaken  from  his  craze, 
Into  the  smoke  again." 

But  Lancelot  said, 

"  Kay,  wherefore  will  ye  go  against  the  King, 
For  that  did  never  he  whereon  ye  rail, 
But  ever  meekly  served  the  King  in  thee? 
Abide:  take  counsel;  for  this  lad  is  great 
And  lusty,  and  knowing  both  of  lance  and  sword." 
"Tut,  tell  not  me,"  said  Kay,  "ye  are  overflne 
To  mar  stout  knaves  with  foolish  courtesies." 
Then  mounted,  on  thro'  silent  faces  rode 
Down  the  slope  city,  and  out  beyond  the  gate. 

But  by  the  field  of  tourney  lingering  yet 
Mutter'd  the  damsel,  "Wherefore  did  the  King 
Scorn  me  ?  for,  were  Sir  Lancelot  lackt,  at  least 
He  might  have  yielded  to  me  one  of  those 
Who  tilt  for  lady's  love  and  glory  here, 
Rather  than— O  sweet  heaven !  O  fie  upon  him— 
His  kitchen-knave." 

To  whom  Sir  Gareth  drew 

(And  there  were  none  but  few  goodlier  than  he) 
Shining  in  arms,  "Damsel,  the  quest  is  mine. 
Lead,  and  I  follow."    She  thereat,  as  one 
That  smells  a  foul-flesh'd  agaric  in  the  holt, 
And  deems  it  carrion  of  some  woodland  thing, 
Or  shrew,  or  weasel,  nipt  her  slender  nose 
With  petulant  thumb  and  finger  shrilling,  "Hence! 
Avoid,  thon  smellest  all  of  kitchen-grease. 
Aud  look  who  comes  behind,"  for  there  was  Kay. 
'•Knowest  thou  not  me?  thy  master?    I  am  Kay. 
We  lack  thee  by  the  hearth." 

And  Gareth  to  him, 

'•Master  no  more!  too  well  I  know  thee,  ay— 
The  most  ungentle  knight  in  Arthur's  hall." 
"  Have  at  thee,  then,"  said  Kay .  they  shock'd,  and  Kay 
Fell  shoulder-slipt,  and  Gareth  cried  again, 
"Lead,  and  I  follow,'1  and  fust  away  she  fled. 

But  after  sod  and  shingle  ceased  to  fly 
Behind  her,  and  the  heart  of  her  good  horse 
Was  nigh  to  burst  with  violence  of  the  beat, 
Perforce  she  stay'd,  and  overtaken  spoke. 


"What  doest  thou,  scullion,  in  my  fellowship? 
Deem'st  thou  that  I  accept  thee  aught  the  more 
Or  love  thee  better,  that  by  some  device 
Full  cowardly,  or  by  mere  unhappiuess, 
Thou  hast  overthrown  and  slain  thy  master— thou  !— 
Dish-washer  and  broach-turner,  loon !— to  me 
Thou  smellest  all  of  kitchen  as  before." 

"Damsel,"  Sir  Gareth  answer'd  gently,  "say 
Wlmte'er  ye  will,  but  whatsoe'er  ye  say, 
I  leave  not  till  I  finish  this  fair  quest, 
Or  die  therefor." 

"Ay,  wilt  thon  finish  it? 

Sweet  lord,  how  like  a  noble  knight  he  talks ! 
The  listening  rogue  hath  caught  the  manner  of  if. 
But,  knave,  anon  thou  shall  be  met  with,  knave, 
And  then  by  such  an  one  that  thou  for  all 
The  kitchen  brewis  that  was  ever  stipt 
Shalt  not  once  dare  to  look  him  in  the  face." 

"I  shall  assay,"  said  Gareth  with  a  smile 
That  madden'd  her,  and  away  she  flash'd  again 
Down  the  long  avenues  of  a  boundless  wood, 
And  Gareth  following  was  again  beknaved. 

"Sir  Kitchen-knave,  I  have  miss'd  the  only  way 
WThere  Arthur's  men  are  set  along  the  wood ; 
The  wood  is  nigh  as  full  of  thieves  as  leaves : 
If  both  be  slain,  I  am  rid  of  thee ;  but  yet, 
Sir  Scullion,  canst  thou  use  that  spit  of  thine? 
Fight,  an  thou  canst:  I  have  miss'd  the  only  way." 

So  till  the  dusk  that  follow'd  evensong 
Rode  on  the  two,  reviler  and  reviled : 
Then  after  one  long  slope  was  mounted,  saw, 
Bowl-shaped,  thro'  tops  of  many  thousand  pines 
A  gloomy-gladed  hollow  slowly  sink 
To  westward— in  the  deeps  whereof  a  mere, 
Round  as  the  red  eye  of  an  Eagle-owl, 
Under  the  half-dead  sunset  glared;  and  cries 
Ascended,  and  there  brake  a  servingman 
Flying  from  out  of  the  black  wood,  and  crying, 
"They  have  bound  my  lord  to  cast  him  in  the  mere." 
Then  Gareth,  "  Bound  am  I  to  right  the  wrong'd, 
But  straitlier  bound  am  I  to  bide  with  thee." 
And  when  the  damsel  spake  contemptuously, 
"Lead  and  I  follow,"  Gareth  cried  again, 
"Follow,  I  lead!"  so  down  among  the  pines 
He  plunged  ;  and  there,  blackshadow'd  nigh  the  mere, 
And  mid-thigh  deep  in  bulrushes  and  reed, 
Saw  six  tall  men  haling  a  seventh  along, 
A  stone  about  his  neck  to  drown  him  in  it 
Three  with  good  blows  he  quieted,  but  three 
Fled  thro'  the  pines;  and  Gareth  loosed  the  stone 
From  off  his  neck,  then  in  the  mere  beside 
Tumbled  it;  oilily  bubbled  np  the  mere. 
Last,  Gareth  loosed  his  bonds  and  on  free  feet 
Set  him,  a  stalwart  Baron,  Arthur's  friend. 

"Well  that  ye  came,  or  else  these  caitiff  rogues 
Had  wreak'd  themselves  on  me ;  good  cause  is  theirs 
To  hate  me,  for  my  wont  hath  ever  been 
To  catch  my  thief,  and  then  like  vermin  here 
Drown  him,  and  with  a  stone  about  his  neck ; 
And  under  this  wan  water  many  of  them 
Lie  rotting,  but  at  night  !et  go  the  etone, 
And  rise,  and  flickering  in  a  grimly  light 
Dance  on  the  mere.     Good  now,  ye  have  saved  a 

life 

Worth  somewhat  as  the  cleanser  of  this  wood. 
And  fain  would  I  reward  thee  worshipfnlly. 
What  guerdon  will  ye?" 

Gareth  sharply  spake, 

"None!  for  the  deed's  sake  have  I  done  the  deed, 
In  uttermost  obedience  to  the  King. 
But  will  ye  yield  this  damsel  harborage?" 


GARETH  AND  LYXETTE. 


269 


Whereat  the  Baron  saying,  "I  well  believe 
Ye  be  of  Arthur's  Table,"  a  light  laugh 
Broke  from  Lynette,  "Ay,  truly  of  a  truth, 
And  in  a  sort,  being  Arthur's  kitchen-knave  !— 
But  deem  not  I  accept  thee  aught  the  more, 
Scullion,  for  running  sharply  with  thy  spit 
Down  on  a  rout  of  craven  foresters. 
A  thresher  with  his  flail  had  scatter'd  them. 
Nay— for  thou  smellest  of  the  kitchen  still. 
But  an  this  lord  will  yield  us  harborage, 
Well." 

So  she  spake.    A  league  beyond  the  wood. 
All  in  a  full-fair  manor  and  a  rich, 
His  towers  where  that  day  a  feaet  had  been 
Held  in  high  hall,  and  many  a  viand  left, 
And  many  a  costly  cate,  received  the  three. 
And  there  they  placed  a  peacock  in  his  pride 
Before  the  damsel,  and  the  Baron  set 
Gareth  beside  her,  but  at  once  she  rose. 

"Meseems,  that  here  is  much  discourtesy, 
Setting  this  knave,  Lord  Baron,  at  my  side. 
Hear  me — this  morn  I  stood  in  Arthur's  hall, 
And  pray'd  the  King  would  grant  me  Lancelot 
To  fight  the  brotherhood  of  Day  and  Night— 
The  last  a  monster  unsubduable 
Of  any  save  of  him  for  whom  I  call'd — 
Suddenly  bawls  this  frontless  kitchen-knave, 
'The  quest  is  mine;  thy  kitchen-knave  am  I, 
And  mighty  thro'  thy  meats  and  drinks  am  I.' 
Then  Arthur  all  at  once  gone  mad  replies, 
'  Go  therefore,'  and  so  gives  the  quest  to  him 
Him — here— a  villain  litter  to  stick  swine 
Than  ride  abroad  redressing  women's  wrong, 
Or  sit  beside  a  noble  gentlewoman." 

Then  half-ashamed  and  part-amazed,  the  lord 
Now  look'd  at  one  and  now  at  other,  left 
The  damsel  by  the  peacock  in  his  pride, 
And,  seating  Gareth  at  another  board, 
Sat  down  beside  him,  ate  and  then  began. 

"Friend,  whether  ye  be  kitchen-knave,  or  not, 
Or  whether  it  be  the  maiden's  fantasy, 
And  whether  she  be  mad,  or  else  the  King, 
Or  both  or  neither,  or  thyself  be  mad, 
I  ask  not:  but  thou  strikes!  a  strong  stroke, 
For  strong  thou  art  and  goodly  therewithal, 
And  saver  of  my  life ;  and  therefore  now. 
For  here  be  mighty  men  to  joust  with,  weigh 
Whether  thou  wilt  not  with  thy  damsel  back 
To  crave  again  Sir  Lancelot,  of  the  King. 
Thy  pardon :  I  but  speak  for  thine  avail, 
The  saver  of  my  life." 

And  Gareth  said, 

"Full  pardon,  but  I  follow  up  the  quest, 
Despite  of  Day  and  Night  and  Death  and  Hell." 

So  when,  next  morn,  the  lord  whose  life  he  saved 
Had,  some  brief  space,  convey'd  them  on  their  way 
And  left  them  with  God-speed,  Sir  Gareth  spake, 
"Lead  and  I  follow."    Haughtily  she  replied, 

"I  fly  no  more:  I  allow  thee  for  an  hour. 
Lion  and  stoat  have  isled  together,  knave, 
In  time  of  flood.    Nay,  furthermore,  methinks 
Some  ruth  is  mine  for  thee.    Back  wilt  thou,  fool  ? 
For  hard  by  here  is  one  will  overthrow 
And  slay  thee:  then  will  I  to  court  again, 
And  shame  the  King  for  only  yielding  me 
My  champion  from  the  ashes  of  his  hearth." 

To  whom  Sir  Gareth  answer'd  courteously, 
"  Say  thon  thy  say,  and  I  will  do  my  deed. 
Allow  me  for  mine  hoar,  and  thou  wilt  find 


My  fortunes  all  as  fair  as  hers,  who  lay 
Among  the  ashes  and  wedded  the  King's  son." 

Then  to  the  shore  of  one  of  those  long  loops 
M'herethro'  the  serpent  river  coil'd,  they  came. 
Rough-thicketed  were  the  banks  and  steep ;  the  stream 

:  Fall,  narrow ;  this  a  bridge  of  single  arc 
Took  at  a  leap;  and  on  the  further  side 
Arose  a  silk  pavilion,  gay  with  gold 
In  streaks  and  rays,  and  all  Lent-lily  in  hue, 
Save  that  the  dome  was  purple,  and  above, 
Crimson,  a  slender  banneret  fluttering. 
And  therebefore  the  lawless  warrior  paced 
Unarm'd,  and  calling,  "  Damsel,  is  this  he, 
The  champion  ye  have  brought  from  Arthur's  hall? 
For  whom  we  let  thee  pass."    "Nay,  nay,"  she  said. 

I  "  Sir  Morning-Star.    The  King  in  utter  scorn 
Of  thee  and  thy  much  folly  hath  sent  thee  here 
His  kitcheu-kuave:  and  look  thon  to  thyself: 
See  that  he  fall  not  on  thee  suddenly, 
And  slay  thee  unarm'd:  he  is  not  knight  but  knave." 

Then  at  his  call,  "  O  daughters  of  the  Dawn, 
And  servants  of  the  Morning-Star,  approach, 
Arm  me,"  from  out  the  silken  curtain-folds 
Barefooted  and  bareheaded  three  fair  girls 
In  gilt  and  rosy  raiment  came:  their  feet 
In  dewy  grasses  glisten'd ;  and  the  hair 
All  over  glanced  with  dewdrop  or  with  gem 
Like  sparkles  in  the  stone  Avanturine. 
These  arm'd  him  in  blue  arms,  and  gave  a  shield, 
Blue  also,  and  thereon  the  morning  star. 
And  Gareth  silent  gazed  upon  the  knight, 
Who  stood  a  moment,  ere  his  horse  was  brought, 
Glorying;  and  in  the  stream  beneath  him,  shone, 
Immingled  with  Heaven's  azure  waveringly, 
|  The  gay  pavilion  and  the  naked  feet, 
His  arms,  the  rosy  raiment,  and  the  star. 

Then  she  that  watch'd  him,  "Wherefore  stare  ye  so  ? 
I  Thou  shakest  in  thy  fear:  there  yet  is  time: 
'  Flee  down  the  valley  before  he  get  to  horse. 
Who  will  cry  shame  *    Thou  art  not  knight  but  knave." 

i     Said  Gareth,  "  Damsel,  whether  knave  or  knight, 
Far  liever  had  I  fight  a  score  of  times 

,  Than  hear  thee  so  missay  me  and  revile. 

i  Fair  words  were  best  for  him  who  fights  for  thee; 
But  truly  foul  are  better,  for  they  send 
That  strength  of  anger  thro'  mine  arms,  I  know 
That  I  shall  overthrow  him." 

And  he  that  bore 

The  star,  being  mounted,  cried  from  o'er  the  bridge, 
"A  kitchen-knave,  and  sent  in  ecorn  of  me! 
Such  fight  not  I,  but  answer  scorn  with  scorn. 
For  this  were  shame  to  do  him  further  wrong 
Than  set 'him  on  his  feet,  and  take  his  horse 
And  arms,  and  so  return  him  to  the  King. 
Come,  therefore,  leave  thy  lady  lightly,  knave. 
Avoid :  for  it  beseemeth  not  a  knave 
To  ride  with  such  a  lady." 

"  Dog,  thou  liest. 

I  spring  from  loftier  lineage  than  thine  own," 
He  spake;  and  all  at  fiery  speed  the  two 
Shock'd  on  the  central  bridge,  and  either  spear 
Bent  but  not  brake,  and  either  knight  at  once, 
Hnrl'd  as  a  stone  from  out  of  a  catapult 
Beyond  his  horse's  crupper  and  the  bridge, 
Fell,  as  if  dead ;  but  quickly  rose  and  drew, 
And  Gareth  lash'd  so  fiercely  with  his  brand 
He  drave  his  enemy  backward  down  the  bridge, 
The  damsel  crying,  "Well-stricken,  kitchen-knave!" 
Till  Gareth's  shield  was  cloven ;  but  one  stroke 
Laid  him  that  clove  it  grovelling  on  the  ground. 

Then  cried  the  fall'n,  "Take  not  my  life:  I  yield." 


270 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


And  Gareth,  "  So  this  damsel  ask  it  of  me 

Good— I  accord  it  easily  as  a  grace." 

She  reddening,  "Insolent  scullion:  I  of  thee? 

I  bound  to  thee  for  any  favor  ask'd !" 

"Then  shall  he  die."    And  Gareth  there  unlaced 

His  helmet  as  to  slay  him,  but  she  shriek'd, 

"Be  not  so  hardy,  scullion,  as  to  slay 

One  nobler  than  thyself."    "Damsel,  thy  charge 

Is  an  abounding  pleasure  to  me.    Knight, 

Thy  life  is  thine  at  her  command.    Arise 

And  quickly  pass  to  Arthur's  hall,  and  say 

His  kitchen-knave  hath  sent  thee.    See  thou  crave 

His  pardon  for  thy  breaking  of  his  laws. 

Myself,  when  I  return,  will  plead  for  thee. 

Thy  shield  is  mine— farewell ;  and,  damsel,  thou 

Lead,  and  I  follow." 

And  fast  away  she  fled. 

Then  when  he  came  upon  her,  spake,  "Methought, 
Knave,  when  I  watch'd  thee  striking  on  the  bridge 
The  savor  of  thy  kitchen  came  upon  me 
A  little  faintlier:  but  the  wind  hath  changed: 
I  scent  it  twenty-fold."    And  then  she  saug, 
"  '0  morning  star'  (not  that  tall  felon  there 
Whom  thou  by  sorcery  or  unhappiuess 
Or  some  device,  hast  foully  overthrown), 
'O  morning  star  that  smilest  in  the  blue, 
O  star,  my  morning  dream  hath  proven  true, 
Smile  sweetly,  thon !  my  love  hath  smiled  on  me.' 

"But  thou  begone,  take  counsel,  and  away, 
For  hard  by  here  is  one  that  guards  a  ford — 
The  second  brother  in  their  fool's  parable- 
Will  pay  thee  all  thy  wages,  and  to  boot. 
Care  not  for  shame:  thou  art  not  knight  but  knave." 

To  whom  Sir  Gareth  answer'd,  laughingly, 
"Parables?    Hear  a  parable  of  the  knave. 
When  I  was  kitchen-knave  among  the  rest 
Fierce  was  the  hearth,  and  one  of  my  co-mates 
Own'd  a  rough  dog,  to  whom  he  cast  his  coat, 
'  Guard  it,'  aud  there  was  none  to  meddle  with  it. 
And  such  a  coat  art  thou,  and  thee  the  King 
Gave  me  to  guard,  and  such  a  dog  am  I, 
To  worry,  and  not  to  flee— and— knight  or  knave— 
The  knave  that  doth  thee  service  as  full  knight 
Is  all  as  good,  meseems,  as  any  knight 
Toward  thy  sister's  freeing." 

"Ay,  Sir  Knave! 

Ay,  knave,  because  thou  strikest  as  a  knight, 
Being  but  knave,  I  hate  thee  all  the  more." 

"Fair  damsel,  ye  should  worship  me  the  more, 
That,  being  but  knave,  I  throw  thine  enemies." 

"Ay,  ay,"  she  said,  "but  thou  shalt  meet  thy  match." 

So  when  they  touch'd  the  second  river-loop, 
Huge  on  a  huge  red  horse,  and  all  in  mail 
Burnish'd  to  blinding,  shone  the  Noonday  Sun 
Beyond  a  raging  shallow.    As  if  the  flower, 
That  blows  a  globe  of  after  arrowlets, 
Ten  thousand-fold  had  grown,  flash'd  the  fierce  shield, 
All  sun ;  and  Gareth's  eyes  had  flying  blots 
Before  them  when  he  turn'd  from  watching  him. 
He  from  beyond  the  roaring  shallow  roar'd, 
"What  doest  thou,  brother,  in  thy  marches  here?" 
And  she  athwart  the  shallow  shrill'd  again, 
"Here  is  a  kitchen-knave  from  Arthur's  hall 
Hath  overthrown  thy  brother,  and  hath  his  arms." 
"Ugh !"  cried  the  San,  and  vizoring  up  a  red 
And  cipher  face  of  rounded  foolishness, 
Push'd  horse  across  the  foamiugs  of  the  ford, 
Whom  Gareth  met  midstream:  no  room  was  there 
For  lance  or  tourney-skill:  four  strokes  they  struck 
With  sword,  and  these  were  mighty ;  the  new  knight 
Had  fear  he  might  be  shamed;  but  as  the  Sun 


Heaved  up  a  ponderous  arm  to  strike  the  fifth, 
The  hoof  of  his  horse  slipt  in  the  stream,  the  stream 
Descended,  and  the  Sun  was  wash'd  away. 

Then  Gareth  laid  his  lance  athwart  the  ford ; 
So  drew  him  home ;  but  he  that  would  not  fight, 
As  being  all  bone-battered  on  the  rock, 
Yielded  ;  and  Gareth  sent  him  to  the  King. 
"  Myself  when  I  return  will  plead  for  thee. 
Lead,  and  I  follow."    Quietly  she  led. 
"Hath  not  the  good  wind,  damsel, changed  again?" 
"  Nay,  not  a  point :  nor  art  thou  victor  here. 
There  lies  a  ridge  of  slate  across  the  ford ; 
His  horse  thereon  stumbled— ay,  for  I  saw  it. 

"'O  Sun'  (not  this  strong  fool  whom  thou,  Sir 

Knave, 

Hast  overthrown  thro'  mere  nnhappiness), 
'  O  Sun,  that  wakeriest  all  to  bliss  or  pain, 
O  moon,  that  layest  all  to  sleep  again, 
Shine  sweetly:  twice  my  love  hath  smiled  on  me.' 

"What  knowest  thou  of  lovesong  or  of  love? 
Nay,  nay,  God  wot,  so  thou  wert  nobly  born, 
Thou  hast  a  pleasant  presence.    Yea,  perchance, — 

"'O  dewy  flowers  that  open  to  the  sun, 
O  dewy  flowers  that  close  when  day  is  done, 
Blow  sweetly :  twice  my  love  hath  smiled  on  me.' 

"What  knowest  thou  of  flowers,  except,  belike, 
To  garnish  meats  with?  hath  not  our  good  King 
Who  lent  me  thee,  the  flower  of  kitchendom, 
A  foolish  love  for  flowers?  what  stick  ye  round 
The  pasty  ?  wherewithal  deck  the  boar's  head  ? 
Flowers  ?  nay,  the  boar  hath  rosemaries  and  bay. 

'"O  birds,  that  warble  to  the  morning  sky, 
O  birds  that  warble  as  the  day  goes  by, 
Sing  sweetly :  twice  my  love  hath  smiled  on  me.' 

"What  knowest  thou  of  birds,  lark,  mavis,  merle, 
Linnet?  what  dream  ye  when  they  utter  forth 
May-music  growing  with  the  growing  light, 
Their  sweet  sun-worship?  these  be  for  the  snare 
(So  runs  thy  fancy)  these  be  for  the  spit, 
Larding  and  basting.    See  thou  have  not  now 
Larded  thy  last,  except  thou  turn  and  fly. 
There  stands  the  third  fool  of  their  allegory." 

For  there  beyond  a  bridge  of  treble  bow, 
All  in  a  rose-red  from  the  west,  and  all 
Naked  it  seem'd,  and  glowing  in  the  broad 
Deep-dimpled  current  underneath,  the  knight, 
That  named  himself  the  Star  of  Evening,  stood. 

And  Gareth,  "Wherefore  waits  the  madman  there 
Naked  in  open  dayshine?"    "Nay,"  she  cried, 
"Not  naked,  only  wrapt  in  harden'd  skins 
That  fit  him  like  his  own ;  and  so  ye  cleave 
His  armor  off  him,  these  will  turn  the  blade." 

Then  the  third  brother  shouted  o'er  the  bridge, 
"  O  brother-star,  why  shine  ye  here  so  low  ? 
Thy  ward  is  higher  up :  but  have  ye  slain 
The  damsel's  champion  ?"  and  the  damsel  cried, 

"No  star  of  thine,  but  shot  from  Arthur's  heaven 
With  all  disaster  unto  thine  and  thee  ! 
For  both  thy  younger  brethren  have  gone  down 
Before  this  youth ;  and  so  wilt  thou,  Sir  Star ; 
Art  thou  not  old?" 

"  Old,  damsel,  old  and  hard, 
Old,  with  the  might  and  breath  of  twenty  boys." 
Said  Gareth,  "  Old,  and  over-bold  in  brag ! 
But  that  same  strength  which  threw  the  Morning-Star 
Can  throw  the  Evening." 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


271 


Then  that  other  blew 
A  hard  and  deadly  note  upon  the  horn. 
"Approach  and  arm  me!"    With  slow  steps  from 

oat 

An  old  storm-beaten,  russet,  many-stain'd 
Pavilion,  forth  a  grizzled  damsel  came, 
And  arm'd  him  in  old  arms,  and  brought  a  helm 
With  but  a  drying  evergreen  for  crest, 
And  gave  a  shield  whereon  the  Star  of  Even 
Half-tarnish'd  and  half-bright,  his  emblem,  shone. 
But  when  it  glitter'd  o'er  the  saddle-bow, 
They  madly  hurl'd  together  on  the  bridge, 
And  Gareth  overthrew  him,  lighted,  drew, 
There  met  him  drawn,  and  overthrew  him  again, 
But  up  like  fire  he  started :  and  as  oft 
As  Gareth  brought  him  grovelling  on  his  knees, 
So  many  a  time  he  vaulted  up  again ; 
Till  Gareth  panted  hard,  and  his  great  heart, 
Foredooming  all  his  trouble  was  in  vain, 
Labor'd  within  him,  for  he  seem'd  as  one 
That  all  in  later,  sadder  age  begins 
To  war  against  ill  uses  of  a  life, 
But  these  from  all  his  life  arise,  and  cry, 
"Thou  hast  made  us  lords,  and  canst  not  put  us 

down  i" 

He  half  despairs :  So  Gareth  seem'd  to  strike 
Vainly,  the  damsel  clamoring  all  the  while, 
'•Well    done,  knave-knight,   well-stricken,  O    good 

knight-knave— 

O  knave,  as  noble  as  any  of  all  the  knights — 
Shame  me  not,  shame  me  not.    I  have  prophesied — 
Strike,  thou  art  worthy  of  the  Table  Round — 
His  arms  are  old,  he  trusts  the  hardeu'd  skin — 
Strike — strike — the  wind  will  never  change  again." 
And  Gareth  hearing  ever  stronglier  smote, 
And  hew'd  great  pieces  of  his  armor  off  him, 
But  lash'd  in  vain  against  the  harden'd  skin, 
And  could  not  wholly  bring  him  under,  more 
Than  loud  South  westerns,  rolling  ridge  on  ridge, 
The  buoy  that  rides  at  sea,  and  dips  and  springs 
Forever ;  til  at  length  Sir  Gareth's  brand 
Clash'd  his,  and  brake  it  utterly  to  the  hilt. 
"I  have  thee  now;"  but  forth  that  other  sprang, 
And,  all  mrknightlike,  writhed  his  wiry  arms 
Around  him,  till  he  felt,  despite  his  mail, 
Strangled,  but  straining  ev'n  his  uttermost 
Cast,  and  so  hurl'd  him  headlong  o'er  the  bridge 
Down  to  the  river,  sink  or  swim,  and  cried, 
"  Lead,  and  I  follow." 

But  the  damsel  said, 

"  I  lead  no  longer ;  ride  thou  at  my  side ; 
Thou  art  the  kingliest  of  all  kitchen-knaves. 

"  'O  trefoil,  sparkling  on  the  rainy  plain, 
O  rainbow  with  three  colors  after  rain, 
Shine  sweetly:  thrice  my  love  hath  smiled  on  me.' 

"  Sir— and,  good  faith,  I  fain  had  added— Knight, 
But  that  I  heard  thee  call  thyself  a  knave — 
Shamed  am  I  that  I  so  rebuked,  reviled, 
Missaid  thee ;  noble  I  am ;  and  thought  the  Kins 
Scorn'd  me  and  mine ;  and  now  thy  pardon,  friend, 
For  thou  hast  ever  answer'd  courteously, 
And  wholly  bold  thou  art,  and  meek  withal 
As  any  of  Arthur's  best,  but,  being  knave, 
Hast  mazed  my  wit :  I  marvel  what  thou  art." 

"Damsel, "he  said,  "ye  be  not  all  to  blame, 
Saving  that  ye  mistrusted  our  good  King 
Would  handle  scorn,  or  yield  thee,  asking,  one 
Not  fit  to  cope  thy  quest.    Ye  said  your  say; 
Mine  answer  was  my  deed.    Good  sooth !    I  hold 
He  scarce  is  knight,  yea  but  half-man,  nor  meet 
To  fight  for  gentle  damsel,  he,  who  lets 
His  heart  be  stirr'd  with  any  foolish  heat 
At  any  gentle  damsel's  waywardness. 
Shamed  ?  care  not !  thy  foul  sayings  fought  for  me : 


And  seeing  now  thy  words  are  fair,  methinks, 
There  rides  no  knight,  not  Lancelot,  his  great  self, 
Hath  force  to  quell  me." 

Nigh  upon  that  hour 

When  the  lone  hern  forgets  his  melancholy, 
Lets  down  his  other  leg,  and  stretching  dreams 

]  Of  goodly  supper  in  the  distant  pool, 
Then  turn'd  the  noble  damsel  smiling  at  him, 

I  And  told  him  of  a  cavern  hard  at  hand, 
Where  bread  and  bakeu  meats  and  good  red  wine 
Of  Southland,  which  the  Lady  Lyonors 
Had  sent  her  coming  champion,  waited  him. 

Anon  they  past  a  narrow  comb  wherein 
Were  slabs  of  rock  with  figure*,  knights  on  horse 
Sculptured,  and  deckt  in  slowly  waning  hues. 
"Sir  Knave,  my  knight,  a  hermit  once  was  here, 
Whose  holy  hand  hath  fashion'd  on  the  rock 
The  war  of  Time  against  the  soul  of  man. 
And  yon  four  fools  have  suck'd  their  allegory 
From  these  damp  walls,  and  taken  but  the  form. 
Know  ye  not  these?"  and  Gareth  lookt  and  read- 
In  letters  like  to  those  the  vexillary 
Hath  left  crag-carven  o'er  the  streaming  Gelt — 
"  PHOSPHOBUS,"  then  "MEEIDIES" — "HESPERUS" — 
••Nox" — "iloRS,"  beneath  five  figures,  armed  meu, 
Slab  after  slab,  their  faces  forward  all, 
|  And  running  down  the  Soul,  a  Shape  that  fled 
I  With  broken  wings,  torn  raiment  and  loose  hair, 
I  For  help  and  shelter  to  the  hermit's  cave. 
"Follow  the  faces,  and  we  find  it.    Look, 
Who  comes  behind?" 

For  one— delay'd  at  first 
Thro'  helping  back  the  dislocated  Kay 
To  Camelot,  then  by  what  thereafter  chanced, 
The  damsel's  headlong  error  thro'  the  wood — 
Sir  Lancelot,  having  swum  the  river-loops — 
His  blue  shield-lions  cover'd — softly  drew 
Behind  the  twain,  and  when  he  saw  the  star 
Gleam,  on  Sir  Gareth's  turning  to  him,  cried, 
"  Stay,  felon  knight,  I  avenge  me  for  my  friend." 
And  Gareth  crying  prick'd  against  the  cry ; 
But  when  they  closed — in  a  moment — at  one  touch 
Of  that  skill'd  spear,  the  wonder  of  the  world — 
Went  sliding  down  so  easily,  and  fell, 
That  when  he  found  the  grass  within  his  hands 
He  laugh'd ;  the  laughter  jarr'd  upon  Lynette : 
Harshly  she  nsk'd  him,  "Shamed  and  overthrown, 
And  tumbled  back  into  the  kitchen-knave, 
Why  laugh  ye  ?  that  ye  blew  your  boast  in  vain  ?" 
"Nay,  noble  damsel,  but  that  I,  the  son 
Of  old  King  Lot  and  good  Queen  Bellicent, 
And  victor  of  the  bridges  and  the  ford, 
And  knight  of  Arthur,  here  lie  thrown  by  whom 
i  I  know  not,  all  thro1  mere  nnhappiness — 
Device  and  sorcery  and  unhappiuess — 
Out,  sword  ;  we  are  thrown  !"  and  Lancelot  answer'd, 

"  Prince, 

O  Gareth— thro1  the  mere  unhappiness 
Of  one  who  came  to  help  thee  not  to  harm, 
Lancelot,  and  all  as  glad  to  find  thee  whole, 
As  on  the  day  when  Arthur  knighted  him." 

Then  Gareth,  "Thou— Lancelot !— thine  the  hand 
That  threw  me  ?    An  some  chance  to  mar  the  boast 
Thy  brethren  of  thee  make — which  could  not  chance — 
Had  sent  thee  down  before  a  lesser  spear 
Shamed  had  I  been  and  sad— O  Lancelot — thou  !" 

Whereat  the  maiden,  petulant,  "Lancelot, 
Why  came  ye  not,  when  call'd  ?  and  wherefore  now 
Come  ye,  not  call'd  ?    I  gloried  iu  my  knave, 
Who  being  still  rebuked,  would  answer  still 
Courteous  as  any  knight— but  now,  if  knight, 
The  marvel  dies,  and  leaves  me  fool'd  and  trick'd, 
And  only  wondering  wherefore  play'd  upon: 


272 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


And  doubtful  whether  I  and  mine  be  scorn'd. 
Where  should  be  truth  if  not  in  Arthur's  hall, 
In  Arthur's  presence  ?    Knight,  knave,  prince  and  fool, 
I  hate  thee  and  forever." 

And  Lancelot  said, 

"Blessed  be  thou,  Sir  Gareth  !  knight  art  thou 
To  the  King's  best  wish.    O  damsel,  be  ye  wise 
To  call  him  shamed,  who  is  but  overthrown  ? 
Thrown  have  I  been,  nor  once,  but  many  a  time. 
Victor  from  vanquish'd  issues  at  the  last, 
And  overthrower  from  being  overthrown. 
With  sword  we  have  not  striven  ;  and  thy  good  horse 
And  thou  art  weary ;  yet  not  less  I  felt 
Thy  manhood  thro'  that  wearied  lance  of  thine. 
Well  habt  thou  done  ;  for  all  the  stream  is  freed, 
And  thou  hast  wreuk'd  his  justice  on  his  foes, 
And  when  reviled,  hast  answer'd  graciously, 
And  makest  merry,  when  overthrown.  Prince,  Knight, 
Hail,  Knight  and  Prince,  and  of  our  Table  Round '." 

And  then  when  turning  to  Lynette  he  told 
The  tale  of  Gareth,  petulantly  she  said, 
"Ay  well — ay  well — for  worse  than  being  fool'd 
Of  others,  is  to  fool  one's  self.    A  cave, 
Sir  Lancelot,  is  hard  by,  with  meats  and  drinks 
And  forage  for  the  horse,  and  flint  for  fire. 
But  all  about  it  flies  a  honeysuckle. 
Seek,  till  we  find."    And  when  they  sought  and  found, 
Sir  Gareth  drank  and  ate,  and  all  his  life 
Past  into  sleep;  on  whom  the  maiden  gazed. 
"  Sound  sleep  be  thine  !  sound  cause  to  sleep  hast  thou. 
Wake  lusty !    Seem  I  not  as  tender  to  him 
As  any  mother?    Ay,  but  such  an  one 
As  all  day  long  hath  rated  at  her  child, 
And  vext  his  day,  but  blesses  him  asleep — 
Good  lord,  how  sweetly  smells  the  honeysuckle 
In  the  hush'd  night,  as  if  the  world  were  one 
Of  utter  peace,  and  love,  and  gentleness ! 
O  Lancelot,  Lancelot"— and  she  clapt  her  hands— 
"Full  merry  am  I  to  find  my  goodly  knave 
Is  knight  and  noble.     See  now,  sworn  have  I, 
Else  yon  black  felon  had  not  let  me  pass, 
To  bring  thee  back  to  do  the  battle  with  him. 
Thus  an  thon  goest,  he  will  fight  thee  first; 
Who  doubts  thee  victor?  so  will  my  knight-knave 
Miss  the  full  flower  of  this  accomplishment." 

Said  Lancelot,  "Peradventure  he,  ye  name, 
May  know  my  shield.    Let  Gareth,  an  he  will, 
Change  his  for  mine,  and  take  my  charger,  fresh, 
Not  to  be  ppurr'd,  loving  the  battle  as  well 
As  he  that  rides  him."    "  Lancelot-like,"  she  said, 
"Courteous  in  this,  Lord  Lancelot,  as  in  all." 

And  Gareth,  wakening,  fiercely  clntch'd  the  shield ; 
"  Ramp,  ye  lance-splintering  lions,  on  whom  all  spears 
Are  rotten  sticks !  ye  seem  agape  to  roar  ! 
Yea,  ramp  and  roar  at  leaving  of  your  lord ! — 
Care  not,  good  beasts,  so  we.ll  I  care  for  you. 

0  noble  Lancelot,  from  my  hold  on  these 
Streams  virtue— fire— thro'  one  that  will  not  shame 
Even  the  shadow  of  Lancelot  under  shield. 
Hence:  let  us  go." 

Silent  the  silent  field 

They  traversed.    Arthur's  harp  thro'  summer-wan, 
In  counter  motion  to  the  clouds,  allured 
The  glance  of  Gareth  dreaming  on  his  liege. 
A  star  shot:  "Lo,"  said  Gareth,  "the  foe  falls!" 
An  owl  whoopt:  "Hark  the  victor  pealing  there!" 
Suddenly  she  that  rode  upon  his  left 
Clung  to  the  shield  that  Lancelot  lent  him,  crying, 
"Yield,  yield  him  this  again:  't  is  he  must  fight: 

1  curse  the  tongue  that  all  thro'  yesterday 
Reviled  thee,  and  hath  wrought  on  Lancelot  now 
To  lend  thee  horse  and  shield :  wonders  ye  have  done  ; 
Miracles  ye  can  not:  here  is  glory  enow 


In  having  flung  the  three:  I  see  thee  maim'd, 
Mangled:  I  swear  thou  canst  not  fling  the  fourth.' 

"And  wherefore,  damsel?  tell  me  all  ye  know. 
Ye  can  not  scare  me ;  nor  rough  face,  or  voice, 
Brute  bulk  of  limb,  or  boundless  savagery 
Appall  me  from  the  quest." 

"Nay,  Prince,"  she  cried, 
"God  wot,  I  never  look'd  upon  the  face, 
Seeing  he  never  rides  abroad  by  day ; 
But  watch'd  him  have  I  like  a  phantom  pass 
Chilling  the  night:  nor  have  I  heard  the  voice. 
Always  he  made  his  mouthpiece  of  a  page 
Who  came  and  went,  and  still  reported  him 
As  closing  in  himself  the  strength  of  ten, 
And  when  his  anger  tare  him,  massacring 
Man,  woman,  lad  and  girl — yea,  the  soft  babe — 
Some  hold  that  he  hath  swallowed  infant  flesh, 
Monster!    O  prince,  I  went  for  Lancelot  first, 
The  quest  is  Lancelot's :  give  him  back  the  shield." 

Said  Gareth  laughing,  "An  he  fight  for  this, 
Belike  he  wins  it  as  the  better  man : 
Thus — and  not  else  ?" 

But  Lancelot  oil  him  urged 
All  the  devisings  of  their  chivalry 
Where  one  might  meet  a  mightier  than  himself; 
How  best  to  manage  horse,  lance,  sword,  and  shield, 
And  so  fill  up  the  gap  where  force  might  fail 
With  skill  and  fineness.    Instant  were  his  words. 

Then  Gareth,  "  Here  be  rules.    I  know  but  one — 
To  dash  against  mine  enemy  and  to  win. 
Yet  have  I  watch'd  thee  victor  in  the  joust, 
And  seen  thy  way."    "Heaven  help  thee,"  sigh'd 
Lynette. 

Then  for  a  space,  and  under  cloud  that  grew 
To  thunder-gloom  palling  all  stars,  they  rode 
In  converse  till  she  made  her  palfrey  halt, 
Lifted  an  arm,  and  softly  whisper'd,  "There." 
And  all  the  three  were  silent  seeing,  pitch'd 
Beside  the  Castle  Perilous  on  flat  field, 
A  huge  pavilion  like  a  mountain  peak 
Sunder  the  glooming  crimson  on  the  marge, 
Black,  with  black  banner,  and  a  long  black  horn 
Beside  it  hanging;  which  Sir  Gareth  graspt, 
And  so,  before  the  two  conld  hinder  him, 
Sent  all  his  heart  and  breath  thro'  all  the  horn. 
Echo'd  the  walls;  a  light  twinkled;  anon 
Came  lights  and  lights,  and  once  again  he  blew ; 
Whereon  were  hollow  tramplings  up  and  down 
And  muffled  voices  heard,  and  shadows  past ; 
Till  high  above  him,  circled  with  her  maids, 
The  Lady  Lyonors  at  a  window  stood, 
Beautiful  among  lights,  and  waving  to  him 
White  hands,  and  courtesy;  but  when  the  Prince 
Three  times  had  blown— after  long  bush— at  last— 
The  huge  pavilion  slowly  yielded  up, 
Thro'  those  black  foldings,  that  which  housed  therein. 
High  on  a  night-black  horse,  in  night-black  arms, 
With  white  breast-bone,  and  barren  ribs  of  Death, 
And    crown'd    with   fleshless   laughter  —  some    ten 

steps — 

In  the  half-light— thro'  the  dim  dawn— advanced 
The  monster,  and  then  paused,  and  spake  no  word. 

But  Gareth  spake  and  all  indignantly, 

"Pool,  for  thou  hast,  men  say,  the  strength  of  ten, 
i  Canst  thou  not  trust  the  limbs  thy  God  hath  given, 

But  must,  to  make  the  terror  of  thee  more, 

Trick  thyself  out  in  ghastly  imageries 
:  Of  that  which  Life  hath  done  with,  and  the  clod, 
i  Less  dull  than  thou,  will  hide  with  mantling  flowers 

As  if  for  pity?"    But  he  spake  no  word ; 
i  Which  set  the  horror  higher:  a  maiden  swoon'd ; 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


273 


The  Lady  Lyonors  wrung  her  hands  and  wept, 
As  doom'd  to  be  the  bride  of  Night  and  Death ; 
Sir  Gareth's  head  prickled  beneath  his  helm ; 
And  ev'n  Sir  Lancelot  thro1  his  warm  blood  felt 
Ice  strike,  and  all  that  mark'd  him  were  aghast. 

At  once  Sir  Lancelot's  charger  fiercely  neigh'd— 
At  once  the  black  horse  bounded  forward  with  him. 
Then  those  that  did  not  blink  the  terror,  saw 
That  Death  was  cast  to  ground,  and  slowly  rose. 
But  with  one  stroke  Sir  Gareth  split  the  skull. 
Half  fell  to  right  and  half  to  left  and  lay. 
Then  with  a  stronger  buffet  he  clove  the  helm 
As  throughly  as  the  skull ;  and  out  from  this 
Issued  the  bright  face  of  a  blooming  boy 
Fresh  as  a  flower  new-born,  and  crying,  "  Knight, 
Slay  me  not:  my  three  brethren  bad  me  do  it, 
To  make  a  horror  all  about  the  house, 
And  stay  the  world  from  Lady  Lyonors. 


They  never  dream'd  the  passes  would  be  past." 
Answer'd  Sir  Gareth  graciously  to  oue 
Not  many  a  moon  his  younger,  "My  fair  child, 
What  madness  made  thee  challenge  the  chief  knight 
Of  Arthur's  hall  ?"    "  Fair  Sir,  they  bad  me  do  it. 
]  They  hate  the  King,  and  Lancelot,  the  King's  friend, 
They  hoped  to  slay  him  somewhere  on  the  stream, 
They  never  dream'd  the  passes  could  be  past." 

Then  sprang  the  happier  day  from  underground : 
And  Lady  Lyonors  and  her  house,  with  dance 
And  revel  and  song,  made  merry  over  Death, 
As  being  after  all  their  foolish  fears 
And  horrors  only  prov'n  a  blooming  bov. 
So  large  mirth  lived  and  Gareth  won  the  quest. 

And  he  that  told  the  tale  in  older  times 
Says  that  Sir  Gareth  wedded  Lyonors, 
But  he,  that  told  it  later,  says  Lynette. 


THE  Son  of  him  with  whom  we  strove  for  power— 
Whose  will  is  lord  thro'  all  his  world-domain — 
Who  made  the  serf  a  man,  and  burst  his  chain — 

lias  given  our  Prince  his  own  Imperial  Flower, 

Alexandrovua. 

And  welcome,  Russian  flower,  a  people's  pride, 
To  Britain,  when  her  flowers  begin  to  blow ! 
From  love  to  love,  from  home  to  home  you  go, 

From  mother  unto  mother,  stately  bride, 

Marie-Alexandrovna. 

"n. 

The  golden  news  along  the  steppes  is  blown, 
And  at  thy  name  the  Tartar  tents  are  stirred ; 
Elburz  and  all  the  Caucasus  have  heard ; 
And  all  the  sultry  palms  of  India  known, 

Alexandrovna. 

The  voices  of  our  universal  sea, 
On  capes  of  Afric  as  on  cliffs  of  Kent, 
The  Maoris  and  that  Isle  of  Continent, 
And  loyal  pines  of  Canada  murmur  thee, 

Marie-Alexandrovna ! 
III. 

Fair  empires  branching,  both,  in  lusty  life  !— 
Yet  Harold's  England  fell  to  Norman  swords ; 
Yet  thine  own  land  has  bow'd  to  Tartar  hordes 
Since  English  Harold  gave  its  throne  a  wife, 

Alexandrovna ! 
18 


j  For  thrones  and  peoples  are  as  waifs  that  swing, 
And  float  or  fall,  in  endless  ebb  and  flow ; 
But  who  love  best  have  best  the  grace  to  know 
That  Love  by  right  divine  is  deathless  king, 

Marie-Alexandrovna ! 

IV. 
And  love  has  led  thee  to  the  stranger  land, 

Where  men  are  bold  and  strongly  say  their  say;— 
i     See  empire  upon  empire  smiles  to-day, 
As  thou  with  thy  young  lover  hand  in  hand, 

Alexaudrovna ! 

So  now  thy  fuller  life  is  in  the  West, 
Whose  hand  at  home  was  gracious  to  thy  poor: 
Thy  name  was  blest  within  the  narrow  door ; 
Here  also,  Marie,  shall  thy  name  be  blest, 

Marie-Alexandrovna ! 

V. 

Shall  fears  and  jealous  hatreds  flame  again  ? 
Or  at  thy  coming,  Princess,  everywhere, 
The  blue  heaven  break,  and  some  diviner  air 
Breathe  thro'  the  world  and  change  the  hearts  of 
men, 

Alexandrovna  J 

But  hearts  that  change  not,  love  that  cannot  cease, 
And  peace  be  yours,  the  peace  of  soul  in  soul ! 
And  howsoever  this  wild  world  may  roll, 
Between  your  peoples  truth  and  manful  peace, 

Alfred— Alexandrovna ! 


No.  I. 

THE   LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS  FLY, 

Allegro  vivace  e  poco  agitato. 


VOICE 

*7f> 

\J  ' 

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—  

,  —  i 

Ki  

1 

.  

SE 

V 

J  - 

8 

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The   lights         and     sha    -    dows      Ay,. 


Yon    -     -   der         it     bright     -     -     ens  and     dark      -     -     ens 


%>=&?&& 


a 


m 


ttl 


on          the      plain . 


A      jew       -        el, 


-W-1-V- 


^  J   ,  -* 


L-3 


— j — j-    i     i — j— ]-+^ 

t-0 \-0 — F*— -j  -*~ 


5t 


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THE  LIGHTS  AND   SHADOWS   FLY. 


1 


a    jew    -    el       dear to      a         lov 


er's 


Wr-r 


"^          •>         » 
/  / 


eye. 


O       is 


it         the     brook, . 


**$£*tifr 


••L-    >jr 


HT 


fei 

\/±znz: 


H-- 


poco 


or  a       pool, 


or        her    win 


dow  - 


— ^-* — H fU — — i —  -m~ i— I  ^-^— - 

*— *Sitt*I3~j.-^i»dVz:i-, 

nTrT  Tr  Tr 


---4—4-* 

*      V 


fr* 


F- 


y  a  tempo. 


^  |  if      ^  T^g^ 


-  pane 


When  the     winds         are     up    in    the     morn  - 


^ 


*--<-*- 


^ 


a  tempo. 


r  i    *i  .1 


ft. 


333313       3 


THE    LIGHTS   AND   SHADOWS  FLY. 


-iug. 


mmmmimmmmmjmm       ^mmmimimmmmmmmr  ^^mmm^mifmm^mml  y»          **J%.  — -j |s  *f    •>    >«    V 


:-^V^- 


FF=^ 


§1 


fc 


J  |j  U-^J^ 


-0=^0=^0- 


m 


Clouds  that  are  rae  -  iug     a  -  bove, 


0       winds      and  lights       and 


i 


^ 


=** 


i-^-yg^rS:-* 


I 


^ 


sha      -     -      dows         that       can  . .  not    be       still. 


-j— i— i— i— i — I— i     f   '--i-p 

BS^^fflSS 


' 


» 


z^: 


11 — "-* 


til 


^4 


THE  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS  FLY. 


All 


run    -     ning   on 


to    the 


£ 


* 


dim. 


home. 


of    my         love, 


All  run   -   ning 


m. 


!=!• 


-"Ml    —          i 

st4^y=^* 


^Mfr^= 


on; 


And     I  stand  on  the 


=4£t 


1?J  j  *  I  J 


*±Z.1£=L± 


\ta=SL 


tt 


slope 


of     the       hill, 


And  the 


^gzaiizm 

•*-*-$-. jrtrt 


-0 « »- 


|^J^Jtf 


•U^-^^t'-r*-!.*.!*. 

li-ffiilf-j 


THE  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS  FLY. 


-dr 


s  —  * 


winds  are   up  in  the  morn 


ing! 


>f 


rs  r    «r 


:== 


-r-1-* — L-^e-*-S-  -*-T-* — -*-         t-       N  *•< — i    j     i     |     i    i — i     i    i 

i         |          •     v  J-  *_  I  ^  •     j       ^       M  --J  *4 I—  J      *t  • 

gj5^  ^^1^5  ?i?3U3?  i& 


conf&rza 


dim. 


4^-  *  —  S;   .*    ,*     ^    ^ 

*-        •.    i    ^  —  ^':::? 

—  r  —  F~ 

g^2_2  —  *  .  *   •  —  t 

r  <  13  —  J-4 

F  C— 

^—  -HX—        i;  •  i                                                            —  v—  • 

Fol-low,  I    fol  -  low  the  chase,                        And   my   thoughts        are            as 

"?  ^l7     :       -         j 

11' 

r     r     r 

jtE-C                  1              ^              i** 

*    iJ                          II 

i           i 

—  *  .    *  —  ^  ^  —  'W-^i- 

—  J  —  *f  —  »  —  »  —  b-5  —  »  —  *  —  t 

>-!  »  f  jf-?  «  9  

conforza.                                                       dim. 

—  r  r  r  i- 

f)'\  \>  —  if--.-—  s—  j—  9|8   -i    ^ 

•f       •»     •»    i 

1  y— 

^V-^  —  F 

01        it    ^^j 

C_K  ^|H|^BBJ  1™  ^  0    •       i  

5 
n                        r                   dfew'                           ^                        iw 

J/     ,yS  jj—  N— 

—  9  —  •  R^  >  

^ 

\ft]        '^          <[        *                             ft 

-4-  3f  1-  -£j*L 

_|^¥            ^ 

quick,               are          as 

1  k 

quick              run    -    ning    on, 

run      -      ing 

(pfe  ff  r  r-JJ-1 

dim.                                             r 

"f"  •           i^p         P     H* 

it. 
hi 

^i--7  —  ^  F  F— 

-t  T  b—  -T- 

^{^.                           b~ 

_J  1  V  [__ 

Uj  

THE   LIGHTS   AND   SHADOWS  FLY. 


Un  poco  piu  lento. 


^— 


0  Lights, 


H      j      !   H-  — I     I       — h~  -fH- 

0      d      m — *—    004      g    a~~a'Tj^ 


f^= 


^ 


there 


be  -  fore     you  are   come         and   gone, And 


S 


•»-  *•   *-  -p-  *• 


< 


EJ= 


THE  LIGHTS  AND   SHADOWS   FLY. 


5S 


heart  is 


there . 


be    -    fore     you  are      come       and 

I         ! 


-JH? — * 


«M  4  «j 


,      ^^     ^^    _^        _J_  ^r 

5:5^5:^     3 


4pfcK  

J        -=?=•  • 

r*Y    '7~~~ 

-*  —  ^  —    —  ^  '  

J 
morn         ... 

ino. 

1 

tempo  \mo. 

^r^-7—  ^--^  —  *r  —  r  ?  — 

E=g==^ 

poco  a  poco  animate.                                                   p 

\|  2-42  

-J~\*     '    *  -i-«~i-J—  "-^J  1-^--'-^-!    »     1   ^     !    0     •    *A  L_^  ^7  ^ 

-LJ  i   0<   0  ' 

•*•    TT    -r   -jt. 


^: 


^    9 


Fol  -  low  them  down      the    slope,  And    I 


m 


THE   LIGHTS   AND   SHADOWS  FLY. 


s 


m 


fol    -    -    low    them  down  to  the    win    -    dow  pane    of    my 


333333 

TT.    Trf-      •*•,    -0-      •*•-+• 


f^=E=Q°E=fn 


bright  -    ens      like        my    hope, 


It    dark     -    -  ens        and 


I  I  j  i  j  jj^ 

f-f*0^L_4  0  0*4 

0     a  — 0 — 0 — 0 


V-t^-4^-W 


0    0    'V   V   -0.    «l   V 


—  —  ^ 

-J-J--J-SJ--J--J-    -J-  J-  -J-    * 


3ET7 


sempre  cres.  e  animate. 


•  Clr"       C-C-fr 


^ 


bright    -      ens,     and   dark    -    ens      like        my      fear When  the 


4    -2     -2  j.— ^"'4    ^.-^r~ -y—y-^g: 


j-y-w 

«i      <l        999 


0    \0     \0 


THE  LIGHTS   AND   SHADOWS  FLY. 


winds        are    up     in    the    morn 


ing, 


confuoco. 


&mt 


When         the      winds  are  up  in         the 


t± 


ff 


confuoco. 


*±= 


1* 


No.  II. 

VINE,   VINE   ^ND    EGLANTINE. 

Allegretto  con  molta  tenerezza. 


*  OUKHW  H         r  I         I       — -    -ar  -*- 

t ^         i i i _     ^ 


Vine,  vine      and        eg    -    Ian    -    tine, 


^^ 


s 


Clasp     her 


dow,      trail    and    twine,  Rose,  rose      and 


VINE,   VINE    AND    EGLANTINE. 


11 


-± 


cle    -    ma    -     tis,  Trail      and      frwiue     and      clasp     and       kiss, 


',     f 


^=^=ff 


2jE 


$fcg 


bow      -      er     All       of        flowers, 


and         drop 


12 


VINE,   VINE  AND   EGLANTINE. 


fr  f  LCJ 


m 


mf 


I 


^ 


Vine,  vine       and        eg    -    Ian    -    tine,  Can  -  not  a  flower,  a 


PEEE£ 


flower     be      mine?  Rose,  rose      and       cle    -    ma    -    tis. 


-I? 


VINE,  VINE   AND   EGLANTINE. 


13 


dim. 


drop      me    a   flower,    a       flower     to        kiss, 


And      out        of    her    bow      -      er,    All         of 


Fed. 


No.    III. 


VOICE. 


PIANO 
FORTE. 


GONE !  GONE  TILL  T^E  END  OF  T^E  YEJ^R, 

A-ndantino  quasi  Allegretto. 


HHH 


molto  legato  e  sostenuto. 


Gone! 


JL 1 — f= — -=?5 Wr- — —Ji*-. L- 


S=f 


till    the   end  of       the  year 


-r  •  r 


And  left  me      in       sha    -     dow  here. 


GONE!  GONE  TILL  THE  END  OF  THE  YEAR. 


15 


Gone — 


flit  -  ted      a  -  way, 

m= 


^ 


0     rv 


ft  N 


r^ft^=F 


«E 


Ta     -      ken     the     stars         from  the    night,  and   the 


r^if  j'Tj-irj-f  j'lf  jf- 


J  .     r     v|T  '     ,    C    C|f  '  ^ 


sun          from    the  day. 


Gone, 


and     a    cloud  in       my 


3^ 


k^n 


EEE^ 


heart, 


and     a    storm  in         the    air! 

*L  .  h- 


^ 


19 


16 


GONE!    GONE   TILL   THE   END  OP  THE   YEAR. 


flit      -      ted        I 


m 


^ 


3^ 


=s 


H 


Fed. 

/  cm. 


stringendo  il  tempo. 


know          not  where  ! 


Down         in      the       south  is        a 

I  i  ,1 


^P 


$e 


^^ 


stringendo  il  tempo. 


£ 


~       H      ~        f         ?——&          • 

7  I  I  I  -F 


flash  and  a      groan.. 


She  is 


roll. 


tempo  Imo. 


V- 


i 


^^r  /r^fe^ 

*      Ped.  *       Pec?.  •* 


fed. 


*     Pec?. 


^      ^ 


Fed. 


^. 


No.  IV. 

THE   FROST   IS   IJERE, 

Allegro  comodo  ma  vivace. 


VOICE. 


PIANO 
FORTE. 


-•-*H«— + 


1 


The       frost    is    here,  And       fuel     is  dear,  And 


e  staccato. 


S.,    -K. 


4  '4  '  *T* 

3333 


p«f         i^X         ^ 

J '  J '  i 


£ 


woods  are      sear,      And          fires    burn    clear,  And     frost  is 


m 


•>     ^  »     M  •»     ^  »     ^ 


?^F? 

•  /  ^   'ic 


ir^-^-        *   f 

*  

gi,     .  —  J  — 

<&—-  ,  ^-J- 

here,                 And  has 

r       r      ^ 

bit    -    -     -     ten              the 

v             s,             v             y 

L  —  i  1 

heel                              of   the 
N           K           N           S 

—  *  ^  — 

"**'*•'»•'» 

'  —  •*  —  4  —  *J  —  ^  —  s  —  m  —  ~  —  m  — 

!  ^  M  

i  *5  —  '  —  S  —  :  —  t  —  _  —  I  — 

Sf   ^==~ 

(h-i  = 

P 

^       -*•-*--»• 

—  #  —  —  ^  —          — 

-^   *{  •         * 

—  t. 

^  '  %  n'  '  C  - 

go     -    -    -    -    mg  year. 


•f 


# 


J L 


>  »     r^^za: 


18 


THE   FROST   IS  HERE. 


m 


light 


The        blue  wood-louse, 


And  the 


n 


i  ra  n  n 
- ,  j  -  *  -  *  - 


j      •<      |j      x    "T 


^ 


plump    dor  -  mouse  ; 


And  the   bees  are 


PP 


^ 


THE  FROST   IS  HERE. 


19 


Sisoluto. 


^— -J — '-=3 

K-ft id ^ 


^ 


+- — V- 


bite          far,        far         in    -    to        the       heart       of      the    house,       But 


not  in      -     to        mine; 


And      you        bite  far 


9 


I 


*f  'f 


«= 


-«- 


JL_*C      n»         •         » 

2a          m         m         »          J 

—  2 

7 

\              N 

rrft  ff      T                      I           • 

T     • 

Hz 

U       Li 

J            J 

far         in    -    to        the 

o  itS     i       J               i 

heart    of     the  house,    But 

n 

it             in     -     to 

JL  —  *x  ^*  ~~4  1{  — 

-J  J—       —  J—           ;- 

—  >•  —        —  »*  — 

^^N           M                 M  **  J                              1-.*                                     ^                                   • 

M               \                                        SZji 

4 

SlZ        H  S        G*         5         1 

*        *             k            — 

t 

*• 

k               *^ 

pv«4f  jf 

h^ 

! 

__^     -r  J*"  +0  f  f  gj  

—  »  9  — 



—  T  n  \  

'              ! 

i 

K+.                 377 

33             H 

-i 

L            •*• 

j  j>  ,     Ljr 


?tP^=* 

S2 « 


Eg^^E^ 


THE   FROST   IS   HERE. 


Bite,  frost, 


r  f  * 


^m 


^rrrrfi"  rrri 

___  !_««_ 


-^-rr 


* 


-*         a: 


bite  1 


The  woods    are      all        the     sear      -      er, 


e  gtacc. 


I 


4J 


j^ng-f-'-f^ 


^y-^-s 


The        fuel      is   all     the  dear  -  er, 


The 


!•>        f>       h 


m^=^ 


f       1      F 


i  i   i     i 


ttt 


fires  are  still  the  clear  -  er, 


My    spring  is  all    the  near  -  er, 


m 


^ 


^R1 


?    ^ 


THE   FROST   IS   HERE. 


21 


n                                                                          cres. 

y              —  <*  —  '  —  i*  —  ?  — 



W  —                                    ~  [/  v  — 

-r  f  ?- 

You  have    bit  -  ten 

V        V                    v        v        \      1  
in  -   to    the  heart    oi     the  earth,  But 

1  1  _J  1  1  !_, 

$t\     *  J*1  J  J**1  7  J^T     5 

—  1  —  1  

1  H  H  •— 

^y  2  —  '  —  4  i  —  '  —  4  — 

—f-  **- 

—  j("  ^*  

-bf-  S*—      iiH*  f~ 

\J             -£..£.-£. 
__  —  •  /.           p                 ere*. 

"      Tl                                     TjM            9 
ft 

-*f  *•  ,H««  «?  *  f«—  r 

3:  j  _p..f  P  —  j  

-B  f— 

"ft  f  

**z  —  s  r  — 

*  — 

r       f 

*     r 

'••r       r           U 

•  — 

conforza. 


r       J       j 

k               k 

fr 
^                i        L1 

22                         \           *          « 

J           J 

3        P 

/         '                     !               X 

*         *          J 

J        J 

not           in  -   to 

mine  ;                        You  have 

bit  -  ten         in    - 

*         a 
to      the 

9        f 

v                       ' 

1                      *  '                        m 

•          1 

Jam.                 M            **            41              ^* 

J                 m  :     \*>    •*    w 

*    L    f   T 

fly         j*     >     4fB        \ 

0.      "*    #   i  J               / 

—  =  m  

t)         *         y!» 

•*•      :'^^^ 

E     i^1-^    *~ 

1             f               | 

^£ 

g      f:      ^ 

ft 

I*         L 

T.       »      »•      «       >• 

w                 >• 

r      r      P 

^^                    i                  V 

' 

r 

r 

V                                t          S          1       '         '     a 
JL                              n                    !     -       *     r 

i* 

r         •* 

L^  p_-  ^_ 

^  J  B-  *  *^  —  ^d  — 

i           \ 

5  — 

^T  ^  ft^  **^  
heart            of       the        eai'tli,      But 

not,                 not  .  . 

....              in           to 

G        *    -                      i       —  i  , 

1 

jt  —  F  f  P  a'— 

—9  =— 

—  .  

fm         •                        '                        a 

lEo 

"u            •»     L      w                a 

2 

Jfr^ 

«y                   I*             ^.         * 

* 

•*•          P             *          l 

c\*                r 

9,  —  »  fc  f  J  

\         **        ~ 

Si  

No.  V. 

BIRDS'   LOVE  ^ND   BIRDS'   SONG, 

Allegro  scherzando. 


VOICE. 


trr-\ — t—m-!—\ —    A  i >    +  I  'f — r~A       — T-TTT fcH — ; -* 


FS£ 


P 


dim. 


p  7  r 


Birds'       love  and   birds'     song, 


Fly    -      -     ing  here  and 


^^  ^^^^^^^       f^^^^^^      ^^^^^^^  ^^^^3^3      L 

& F^H'H  "PTT^—    ^    1~i — ^^H^~>IH"^1—F^1^— i — F"^1^  -MH"^-  nTl^  i 


-**?  ~ 

r^T-ft 


there ; . . . . 


Birds'     song  and      birds'     love,  And 


IfL 


BIRDS'  LOVE  AND  BIRDS'  SONG. 


23 


you  with  gold  for         hair ; 


Birds'      song  and 


p  r^  i    \  t  \    fn  f  \ 

f  !  !  1  i  I  I  i  '  i  i  !  i 

mmmmmtmmm      mmmmmmmai  mx^mmmmxx* 


IS 


-r.  f  if 


birds'      love, 


-    ing  with  the     wea    -   ther  ; 


9H 


SjCOV  irrl^ri 


dim.  piu  lento. 


once  and    for    ev    -    -      er. 


24 


BIRDS'   LOVE   AND  BIRDS'   SONG. 


dim. 


Men's       love  and  birds'     love,  And 


6FB 


33S§ 


& 


r    r    T-^ 


wo  -  -  -    man's  love  and      men's, 


And    you,  my  wren,  with 


"  N     s  M    -i 

3=M^3 


S 


crown   oi  gold, 


You,  the  queen  of  the  wrens  ! 


^^-^ 


2^; 


BIRDS'  LOVE  AND  BIRDS'   SONG. 


Ht-ff-»-- 


:^ 


* — f— -r- 

4 h h— 

tf — y — t— 


V  —  t> 
We'll  be  birds         of          a 


You   the  Queen    of       the    wrens, 


g 


^S£E3 


S5*5 


i 


-g^g— 


-i. 


fea  -  ther, 


I'll   be  King  of  the  Queen  of  the  wrens,      And 


= 


* 


7         P 


JMU  ferato. 


No.   VI. 


IS  J^NOT^ER  SWEET  ^S  1V[Y  SWEET, 


VOICE. 


PIANO 
FORTE. 


±3 


Andante  con  molta  tenerezza. 


Where         is  an    -     oth      -      er 


*¥ 


sostenuto. 


Fed. 


~3 


^^ 


sweet      as        my         sweet?  Such  an      -      oth      -      er         be 

=te= 


n 


*~* 
Kfe  =£ 

—  J  

-r-    -f--r- 

=^=-=-^ 

V  h 

-    neal 

IL 

^  —  —  P  —  .  — 

;h           the             sky?               Fine             lit     -     tie         hands, 

(nr  —  ^ 

—  «i  —  =  —  • 

—  gs  

25 

t  

(-               -z&  "  '   '  -&'                    -&-     r 

i 

rv  ^ 

j 

• 

K 

r                   a 

"^3 

WHERE  IS  ANOTHER  SWEET  AS  MY   SWEET. 


27 


fcftdl 

£  N  —  i 

0m 

. 

^ 

•  j/     TT  —  •  )- 

f        «M 





F  — 

^=  —  M=l 

—  ^- 



I/ 

-b  — 

—  i  b^  — 

Fin 

5           lit    -    tie 


& 
fee 

t, 

i 
Fine          lit 

-    tie 

hearts        and 

SEE  3 

•7           -* 

i  
B  1 

•fe 

• 

^ 

era 

. 

, 

-n 

T5 

^4  — 

Lj  —  ^  —  1 

\jfa£  -J  f  flf- 

^  

-f  f— 

-6  —  f—t  — 

dew        y        blue 

eye. 

ShaU           I 

I 

write        to          her  ? 

pz  

«  

a  4  

—  9  *!  

ffts  —  z^  

|  -^ 

r^  3  —  i 

h-^~          3 

p7     r 

i  1  — 

tfim. 

1  *  —  • 

fSf  tt 

bM  

^ 

5 

75  

fi  

^Km 

-J- 

^ 

* 

fe^  : 

—  f 

—  fr 

? 

~c  —  c  —  "  —  f  —  ^  — 

n   ft 

—  w 

Sh 

U- 
ill       I 

L_|- 

g 

0? 

1 

Ask        her        to         mar   -   ry        me 

u   ^ 

J 

• 

)• 

• 

^CV)  — 

j 

—  x  — 

~B?~        ~":~                   ~*  

—  ^- 

„ 

6 

29 

5 

Ff^M 

=3= 

•s 
ral 

=5= 

r 
i 

^ 

—  P~~-  1  — 

P-^ 

by 

• 

and 

gz 
by? 

If      C     6  1  ;      J—  1 

Some    -    bod    -     y          said          that 

rjn 

IK.  r 

^                                         £-1 
-gr                                           -o^- 

1  1  

a^ 

28 


WHERE   IS   ANOTHER   SWEET   AS  MY   SWEET. 


diwi. 


£*==^ 

j  

Ft= 

i  —  f~i'     ^== 

gh=*  *  *  — 

she'd          say. 

no,           But 

V  '          V 
some    -     bo      -      dy 

E       —s—       — 

knows         that 
—  «—       

§==^= 
*/            z)*2 

___«  

~i 

f 

9  :  

{=* 

0- 

—  9  r^ 

f- 

(p*  

f    

-w  1 

-r. 

-^-. 

• 

F  

'                           .'              T 

K?  j 

—  E 

-H  —  -  —  r— 

"~f~       ~~f~~ 

—f—'       ~~f 

fm           * 

—  *  *  y  — 

—  E  ^  — 

L 

tr  
sh( 

n  ft 

'11              say 

ay,                    Ay 
K 

ay,               Ay 
K 

ay,               A3 

r 

V  TT 

. 

A 

J                   J 

j                  ^ 

Mr-  

*!             i 

«     .             • 

—  -* 

M  

—^~              ~~t~ 

*  •  ~*  

—  4  —  *  —    —  1 

*J                 Q-t 

*TS 

1 

i 

f 

f     •             9 
m      •               m 

r  *       1* 

• 

t^\*  TT 

1 

r            f 

J***                    X 

\              *f              b 

m      •                m 

^^    ii                & 

7        r 

*             r 

*                 r 

fc$r  —  — 

1  

—  

—  

j               j 

ay  !.  . 

1               h 

i 

U    if                                M 

J 

N 

c 

A. 

i    •         *^ 

«        *r 

r 

-^j 

rm          4            d 

41                          2 

J 

J             J 

cz 

5 

ssp        3  • 

5  •       i 

i               2 

•        ^ 

Oj 

t7               9     •          * 

11        fl    •       1*" 

m    •         j 
»     •         * 

*    •      -i- 

•25 
P« 

i. 

•25 

• 

C\"ff         r    • 

\               * 

• 

_|  . 

*f         N 

N- 

__ 



F*         i 

_  /  j  — 

~~m~~  ~~ir 

|  1 

-^r 

- 

£ 

3 

5:  1 

• 

V5 

•75 

i 


Ah,. . . .          my  la      -      dy         if        asked         to        her         face, 


m 


WHERE  IS  ANOTHER  SWEET  AS  MY   SWEET. 


Might  say          no,  for  she  is  but 


-& 


£ 


Fly,  lit    -    tie        let    -    ter,  a     -     pace,  a    -    pace, 


^ 


£       w    ^*=g 


Down         to          the         light          in  the  val      -      ley 


^E* 


B 


dim. 


Fly          to          the       light  in        the        val      -     ley        be    -    low, 


diwi. 


30 


WHERE   IS   ANOTHER   SWEET  AS   MY    SWEET. 


fit  1 

r- 

1 

N       hi 

=M=^ 

F^= 

•f         k 

Tel 

1      mj 

r 

wisl 

-J—  «U 

i       to    her 

1      —  j 

dew 

E  E 
-  y  blue 

|  | 

« 

P 
For 

r  PC  f 

some  -    bo  -  dy 

fez 

—  1 
u 

tf  — 

i 

i    \ 

—  ^ 

—  g 

n 

Ir 

|  rod 

,> 

J 

9  " 

ii 

^ 

— 

3_ 

-  —  P  

-^ 

5 

ii— 
f 

•s 

^»8P 

•said          that  she'd         say  no,  But       she      won't  say 


e=s 


^r-        J    J 

-J-,  —  EE 

—  J  —  ^  —  R 

i  —  m 

r     D 

t/- 

no,        And     fll 

fi  ^      1 

tell          you 

why  —     Sh 

B 

s 

will          say 

j        ^ 

ay,            Ay, 

V  +T     J 

i               - 

«       « 

j               j 

j— 

J      *1 

J     "           1 

^\)  y  ~  ^  

—  ^  —       4 

—  j  —  *  —  i  — 

—  j  —  *  fl  — 

dZT/lt 

•£- 

a 

f 

1  ^ 

f  •   r 

^-f  f  

—  15>  — 

N=M 

~F  —  ~  r  — 

E§=^- 

—  w  

r     rr^^ 


ay!. 


W 


ff 


r  • 


VOICE. 


PIANO 
FORTE. 


No.  VII. 

THE   IpT   ^ND    THE    RAIN, 

Allegro  molto  e  agitato. 


The 


g 


mist          and       the  rain, 


ic  mist         and      the  rain!          Is       it 


"- 


2 


ay 


no? 


And 


§« 


^—^-^=^=^r^  j  j  j  J 


* 


m 


a        glimpse 


of  her 


:f=f 


tt& 
^^ 


E^ 


20 


THE   MIST   AND   THE   RAIN. 


dow         -          pane ! 


—  ^  —  ~~  —  — 


HHH 


i g 


^ 


And 


may 


^ 


IP 


a 


die, 


but       the     grass 


will 


^>-£p^p^g 


^ 


animate. 


grow, 


Aud  the    grass     will      grow when 


THE  MIST  AND  THE  RAIN. 


tempo  Imo. 


m 


I  am       gone,         And       the       wet         west        wind  and          the 


i 


m 


\ 

^J 

world       will       go                on. 

iHt    j     _    -»  —  - 

W~f  *  ^ 

^— 

—  g—  _^_    _g_^      3            3             Ay            g     J     g 

tmS?  

^^zr    -& 

^±^     ^             ^             ^^1^ 

«f 

i               !        ; 

f~\*  jj 

-•  a  a  1  J  a  J  J— 

_J     TT  —  ^ 

i  v  — 

^  

J 

J 

1                     1           1 

-a 

•                            -a 

•^••^••*•-^••^••^••^••^• 

dim. 


T»~~»I  *}     <~~aj 

J.  jjjj 


Ay         is        the      song        of      the     wed    -    ded    spheres,       No         is 


•f 


34 


THE   MIST   AND   THE   RAIN. 


trou  -     ble     aud      cloud       and         storm,          Ay  is         life         for 


;z^          9»- 


rru.  Hrf^^ 


bun  -    dred    years,    No        will    push      me       down       to     the     worm; 


SA 


^c 


^ 


& 


J^  ff         —  0  — 

—  1  K- 

-n  H  

i  

1  

rrn                       i 

J          J 

i    \  *•         A 

J 

EJZ 

^ 

'             m  •     m 

^          j    i  (&'         ^ 

&)      • 

J                        J.                                            -      •                                                                  ^ 
And    when          I        am     there,         and     dead,         and         gone,         The 

n  i 

i 

JL  " 

!        ^* 

w 

1     ^    -                     s 

*• 

\     5!     HI 

RR 

J                  J 

* 

-4—^-  i  —  E=5i 

I      3 

p  stacc. 

~..J1  1  1  1  1  1  1  1  1 

«r- 

w  —  — 

• 

B 

9  —  .  "  Si  

B 

1  »  —  •  

—  -^ 

—  d 



—f  *  « 



—  4  

1 

•» 

:            d:                d:        - 

TT 

5^^ 


wet          west         wind      and    the     world      will     go       on,  The  world 


i 


^=^ 


THE   MIST   AND   THE   RAIN. 


35 


ratt. 

•will      go         on. 
a  tempo  agitato. 

ratt.                                 p                                                      ores. 

f^V.it  Tf3  1  ;=  1  IMHMMMi  (^BHPBOMi  p^  4  4  4  4  4  4  P  f 

t^|  «  <y        J- 

fj^;  ^  S'  4444  4—4 

It*  =  

*  »  »  »  W  V  9  9  0  0— 

IE 

*) 

j-|          i       i      i      i        1111- 

The 

P 

jiL^  —  i  —   .  K  k  j  . 

H  h  b-J  

wind         and      the  wet,                     The  wind        and      the  wet! 

§#  

(tf       |««              MM                 M        ^[        .     M             •> 

•7J*f4*fJ*?J     ^>  '  V       •?       *f 

^M^M^M^'lm        ^     09     ^    'M     ^     09       *i     M 

TyryTyTij;  ^pc^jCF^ic^p: 

it    ii    (•    * 

S>        i*        9           I        2        |f         || 

I  —  1  i  1  i  1  .  —  ^1  

•        •        »          »        i        w         i 

\"           .      I  —  1  —  F  — 

fo  *  —      —  *  —                       —  4-  —  •  — 

-^  —  :  J  p  ¥  £  — 

Wet          west          wind,         how   you 

blow,                you    blow  !               And 

"">  —  f  —  4  —  »  1      i      !     i 

^*  r  r  r  F—  j^—  ^-i— 

J      J       J      J— 

THE   MIST   AND   THE   RAIN. 


r        r 


er  a  line 


from  my 


m 


j-N-^-^j^V^ 
*f 


Q^   •(•!••   y_f. 

zJ "  — '*     *    *     »     u    w 


B^ 


Is      it  ay 


ffl-^ffl^fikJ^^ 


^=JO4  ^ 


no? 


Is      it  ay 


^ — ft f «»—     •—•—     — M*— 

^  f    tf  — f —         »  —-» 

j3~£  \  f  >  rrr  rr  r 


THE   MIST   AND   THE   RAIN. 


37 


f 

f  piu  arivmato. 

&           (^ 

"^      W     -  "  '  — 

Khi  —  -                1 

J 

no  ?  

tF 

Blow,     then, 

H  —  4— 

^,J      rs                        r*l 

r^Hh 

3 

•fa  J.I....J.I  i  -j.1^  j    ^      »— 

^H  

A       "\  ' 

%             sz 

^        * 

-*-&— 

ff 


feE 

»  ' 

* 

»  — 

0 

Q  

f 

9  

rf  1 

*f          **          mm 

^ 

I  ;  p  

1    : 

-+  L  i  
P  ' 

-^ 

i  

-&- 

roll.  al  Jim. 


r  c '  J ._ j: 


whcn          I        am      gone          The        wet        west       wind  and         the 


colla  voce. 


f- 


world     may    go  on.. 


«{*r*T~ig  ><*~8i  «;  *<«~«rj  >< 

4j  ^|:ff  ^J4|:fp>f 


/•/• 


5          5     ^  ^  ^  •*• 


S 


^L  *t_   to        I  Si»«iMaHaBiiniMU  _MM^»^ySf 

ei  5~  ^f"jn  •?  -  r*r Tr~r*ri  *?  ^  s  « *i  3s 

^»^^^^3* 


—i j — | — i — i — t 1 1 — j — j h 

1  1  1  3^=!!izapM~1 

|  | J- 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 \r 


m 


*    =t 


No.  VIII. 

WINDS  ^RE  LOUD,  ^ND   YOU   ^RE  DUp, 

Andante  espressivo. 


VOICE. 


PIANO 
FORTE. 


i — f— i — »- 


m 


Winds    are    loud,     and       you    are    dumb,        Take       my 


^ 


I 


~*U~r-g 


3S 


-&-    . 


j   j  i  j^j  r  ti^^H-f  ^4^  ^^ 


e,       for        love        will  come ;         Love      will   come      but        once         a 


3E 


s 


^s 


life,  Love        will   come       but       once. .         a      life. 


P 


WINDS  AEE  LOUD,  AND  YOU  ABE  DUMB. 


39 


a 


a 


*& 


Winds  are      loud,  and      winds  will        pass; 


J J-rkl 


3C 


Spring  is        here  with         leaf  and 


ffi?ff¥^ 

b  

__]  

3S  —  1 

Tak 

=4= 

-^  •  —  J—  ::-- 

Fjf8^!^^  r  -i 

be  my      \ 

?ife  ! 

^    *r 

TfTrf 

r'r>Tfr 

rTrf  rr 

*5 

,  —  —  -  - 

—  ^ 

~--             —  •" 

.  I- 

_^  

r 

^  ^ 

pi-     3 

40 


WINDS   ARE   LOUD,   AND   Y.OU   ARE  DUMB. 


Take  my      love          and      be my    wife. 


•     *     *         *    ^fS+Z+f+y*  3.+ 


•&-  V 


J 


Af     -    -      ter    - 


*fc=£ 


F^ 


fr 


•t — r— *- 


tr^r-fr 


it*W  —  r~ 

_J_  ^  —  — 

-d  d  —  • 

rm  ff                           J 

W               w 

^J                  W 

SSZ                A*                        * 

^/        • 

loves                 of 

maids         and 

B 

men 

Are                but 

P      3^|*f 

T^^r     •*• 

•J-  *  J-  J  J 

„ 

r~v  e  Jj"    TEii             j 

i 

B»StLTl4*               1 

^—  :ff-ff  —  fi>  —  J  — 

-H  

^  . 

<*-—.  

^±^±=s= 


dain    -     ties       '  dressed     a    -    gain ; 


Love         me      now         you'll 


44.-^.- 


•*•   •* 


WINDS  ARE  LOUD,  AND  YOU  ARE  DUMB. 


:f=*= 


^~r        ir^^f 


love 


IA 


me  then,. 


Love  can 


m 


IJZI32 


f   -r  ?   -r  f 

i    r  i    r  i 


SA 


^ 


i 


W 


love  but  once a  life, 


Love         can 


dim 


4 


^^ 


rLC 


•* 


No.  IX. 


VOICE. 


PIANO 
FORTE. 


TWO   LITTLE   ^NDS 

Andante.  p 


3 


Two      lit  -  tie    hands    that    meet, 


v'e  f  T^rrH'h  t  r 


Claspt   on    her  seal,      my  sweet !  Must     I      take      you  and  break    you, 


ritenuto. 


a  tempo. 


Two    lit  -  tie  hands  that  meet? 


I    must  take     you 


i — p  n  i 
4    ,"-*•*-* 


TWO  LITTLE  HANDS  THAT  MEET. 


43 


dim. 


— ? —  — Ir— V?      f 


And  break       you,  And    lov      -      -      ing  hands  must  part ; 


Nfc 


m 


dim. 


Calando. 


BE 


Take,         take ;          break,    break ;        Break ; —  you  may  break  my     heart ! 


ff  Bisoluto. 


ratt. 


Faint  heart  nev  -  er    won,    Break,  break  and    all's 


No.  X. 


VOICE. 


PIANO 
FORTE. 


SUN    COMES,    MOON   COMES, 

Allegro  molto. 


:EE 


1 


molto  leggiero. 


Ped. 


s 


Sun 


comes, 


-F-: 


comes, 


m 


#      Petf. 


lff=^ 


l=g: 


Time 


-P--i- 


slips 


a     -     way. 


rr 


SUN  COMES,  MOON  COMES. 


45 


ftf      <g 


p^= 


m 


Sun 


sets, 


sets, 


j«*. 


#       Pal. 


^=5 


^ 


Love, 


fix 


a  day. 


^1 


Ped. 


* 


Pea. 


I 


p  . 


"We  shall          both  be  gray ; 


Ped. 


46 


SUN  COMES,  MOON  COMES. 


r    7  i 


month 


hence,  a       month 


hence," 


diwi. 


Far,         far       a  -  way. 


p     cdtta  wee. 


V  V  V 


—  « 


V  V 


T  1     C 


A       week 


hence,  a 


13^5=3 


P«ot. 


SUN  COMES,  MOON  COMES. 


47 


m 


E 


week 


hence," 


Ah  !  the       long  de 


Ped. 


V  ffJI 

fegtf    J_  .  *  

f  f  ^~ 

^_u  £*_;  j  

.^  y  ^  £.  —  J  

lay! 

Wait                   a         lit   -  tie, 

[S3  J^&                  23  _fe 

I 


^r      -c- 


Wait 


a        lit   -   tie, 


You  shall     fix 


*f 


un  poco  rii. 


Ped. 


^  o  tewipo  animate. 


^ 


day," 


To    -    mor     -      -      row,    love,          to    - 


m 


Fed. 


21 


*       Pea. 


iS 


SUN  COMES,  MOON  COMES. 


mor      •      row, 


And     that's         an  age  a  - 


±     £ 


EC 


sempre. 


r  •    f      r — »- 

=v= 


Blaze        up    -     on          her 

==4=J=u 


*         f 

^    ff     conforza. 


^ 


£ 


win  -  dow,    snn,   And    hon  -  or      all      the      day  ! 


S 


T 


i 


coOavoa. 


I 


#  ^«i. 


No.  XI. 

LIGIJT  SO   LOW  UPON 


Andante  con  moto. 


VOICE. 


PIANO 
FORTE. 


m 


S 


3&jJpE=fefc£li 


Light      so     low     up  -  on       earth....  You 


-0 0- 


AI>  ^u              i  '     i  '      _n    '"^ 

r        * 

m          P        m     ' 

m*  '-—*  —  -J  —  +-•   *  0 

-v  —  U  —  b    —  fr- 

~r  h  1  

tj 

send      a    flash      to  the 

SUD, 

i  1  —  ^  —  i 

Here    is    the  gold  -  en 

i  1  1 

L_|  tx  j  1 
close    of    love, 

jt  '    i  "~ 

~l  



1  —  '  

f^^l          ^         /fS 

23     • 

1     •           J 

v  i/              ^5      • 

x:    • 

/d 

*              3    • 

"3^"     • 

%-  : 

-^-  : 

-r    •        £    : 

r\«    \~       &      • 

^>      • 

PJI 

_         *                    A         • 

TS]  2         ^       • 

*                    ?         * 

±  H>^ 

-&—• 

&   • 

—  P  -1  

£-4£  1  

. 

—1  1  1 

^       N 


^- 


All     m     \voo  -  ing    is      done.  .  . 


O       the  woods  and  the  mea  -  dows. 


-*-r& 


qy^    .*  -- 

^-5-£~*    ' 


±5 


zE"^ 


50 


LIGHT  SO  LOW  UPON  EARTH. 


fit.  e  dim. 


yM^H=fr 


Woods  where  we    hid  from   the      wet,  ....  Stiles  where  we  stay'd  to   be 


m 


dim. 


m 


Light,     so    low    in  the     vale, 


You  flash    and  light  -  en    a  - 


- — *     *    -*    -f      -9-    -f-    •*•    *     9-       •*•    •+-*•& 


& 


£ 


far : 


For     this      is  the   gold     -     en  morn  -  ing  of    love,         And 


dim. 


-lEtf 


LIGHT  SO  LOW  UPON  EARTH. 


51 


*—& 


you     are     his    morn  -  ing       star Flash !     I      am  com  -  ing,    I 


come, . 


By      mea  -  dow    and    stile,        and       wood, . 


cy.-u p       p — p — p — p ^ P P— J> — 0 — —f- 


M& 


light  -  en       in   -   to    my    eyes    and   my    heart,     In  -  to    my  eyes    and   my 


52 


LIGHT   SO  LOW  UPON  EARTH. 


great        e  -  nough 


For      a      love      that       nev   -    er      tires? 


P^? 

V    /      i     x-J 


!__! _T* 


f    ' 


r 


rpRF 

7      /     /  Jj*       •         «       * 

tj*         *       *         * 

ZM     •           \  -•  —  C 

\"J 

J 
r\ 

0      heart,     are      you 

great        e  -  nough      for 

love? 

y          \ 

I       J 

Axk 

L        L-    J 

I       fiX' 

GS#- 

\tfaf,       • 

1  u.W            • 

H  n  (^  i 

&^XJ 

InJ/x 

J 

Hp-   : 

b*i      *     #    J    « 

f\* 

-ill            1          I'M 

Hi           HI 

J*  J— 

?         1                             1 

• 

:  ,  3 

^^      j-j 

L     uJ            J         J     J     J 

-4<-i 

hJ       ^       J    J    J 

I          have    heard         of     thorns      and        briers. 


PS 


if 


dzm. 


m 

0    4    t 


* 


i       w     •"  '*?''  •"' 


rfo. 


LIGHT   SO  LOW  UPON  EARTH. 


53 


f  piu  vivo. 


jfcfc 


-*-. 


0  -  ver  the     thorns    and 


*-L* 


•*  — *r  ^ 

5j3f 


animato. 

.     .f  fr 
>:  ;r-k»_£_ 


£Efe£ 


B:iz:5»= 

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3 


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ENGLISHMAN'S  GREEK  CONCORDANCE.  The 
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mar. Designed  for  Use  in  Colleges  and  Schools. 
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GIESELER'S  ECCLESIASTICAL  HISTORY.  A 
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GIESELER.  Translated  from  the  Fourth  Revised 
German  Edition  by  SAMUEL  DAVIDSON,  LL.D.,  and 
Rev.  JOHN  WINBTANLIY  HULL,  M. A.  A  New  Amer- 
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late  Professor  of  Biblical  Literature  in  the  Union 
Theological  Seminary,  New  York.  Royal  8vo,  Cloth, 
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69.  Lady  of  Milan.     Edited  by  Mrs.  Thomson 75 

70.  The'citizen  of  Prague 1  00 

71.  The  Royal  Favorite.     By  Mrs.  Gore 50 

72.  The  Queen  of  Denmark.     By  Mrs.  Gore. 50 

73.  The  Elves,  &c.     ByTieck 50 

74.  75.  The  Step-Mother.     By  James 1  25 

76.  Jessie's  Flirtations 50 

77.  Chevalier  d'Harmental.     By  Dumas 50 

78.  Peers  and  Parvenus.     By  Mrs.  Gore 50 

79.  The  Commander  of  Malta.     By  Sue 50 

80.  The  Female  Minister 50 

81.  Emilia  Wyndham.     By  Mrs.  Marsh 75 

82.  The  Bnsh-Ranger.     By  Charles  Rowcroft 50 

83.  The  Chronicles  of  Clovernook 25 

84.  Genevieve.     By  Lamartine 25 

85.  Livonian  Tales 25 

86.  Lettice  Arnold.     By  Mrs.  Marsh 25 

87.  Father  Darcy.    By  Mrs.  Marsh 75 

88.  Leontine.     By  Mrs.  Maberly 50 

89.  Heidelberg.     By  James 50 

90.  Lucretia.     By  Bulwer 75 

91.  Beauchamp.    By  James 75 

92,94.  Forteseue.    By  Knowles. 100 


PRICK 
93.  Daniel  Dennison,  &c.    By  Mrs.  Hofland $  50 

95.  Cinq-Mars.     By  De  Vigny 50 

96.  Woman's  Trials.     By  Mrs.  S.  C.  Hall 75 

97.  The  Castle  of  Ehrenstein.     By  James 50 

98.  Marriage.    By  Miss  S.  Ferrier 50 

99.  Roland  CasheL     By  Lever 1  26 

100.  Martins  of  Cro'  Martin.     By  Lever 1  25 

101.  Russell.     By  James 50 

102.  A  Simple  Story.     By  Mrs.  Inchbald 50 

103.  Norman's  Bridge.     By  Mrs.  Marsh 50 

104.  Alamance. 50 

105.  Margaret  Graham.     By  James 25 

106.  The  'Wayside  Cross.     By  E.  H.  Milman. 25 

107.  The  Convict.     By  James 50 

103.  Midsummer  Eve.     By  Mrs.  S.  C.  Hall 50 

109.  Jaue  Eyre.     By  Currer  Bell 75 

110.  The  Last  of  the  Fairies.     By  James 25 

111.  Sir  Theodore  Broughton.     By  James 50 

112.  Self-Control.     By  Mary  Brunton 75 

113.  114.  Harold.     By  Bulwer 1  00 

115.  Brothers  and  Sisters.    By  Miss  Bremer 50 

116.  Gowrie.     By  James 50 

117.  A  Whim  and  its  Consequences.    By  James 50 

118.  Three  Sisters  and  Three  Fortunes.     By  G.  H. 

Lewes 76 

119.  The  Discipline  of  Life. 50 

120.  Thirty  Years  Since.     By  James 75 

i  121.  Mary  Barton.    By  Mrs.  GaskelL 50 

1  122.  The  Great  Hoggarty  Diamond.     By  Thackeray  25 

'  123.  The  Forgery.     By  James 60 

124.  The  Midnight  Sun.     By  Miss  Bremer 25 

,  125,  126.  The  Caxtons.     By  Bulwer 75 

127.  Mordaunt  Hall.     By  Mrs.  Marsh 50 

128.  My  Uncle  the  Curate 80 

129.  The  Woodman.     By  James 75 

130.  The  Green  Hand.     A  "  Short  Yarn" 75 

131.  Sidonia  the  Sorceress.     By  Meinhold 1  00 

132.  Shirley.     By  Currer  Bell 100 

133.  The  Ogilvies 50 

134  Constance  Lyndsay.     By  G.  C.  H 50 

135.  Sir  Edward  Graham.    By  Miss  Sinclair 1  00 

136.  Hands  not  Hearts.     By  Miss  Wilkinson 50 

137.  The  Wilmingtons.     By  Mrs.  Marsh 50 

138.  Ned  Allen.     By  D.  Hannay 50 

139.  Night  and  Morning.     By  Bulwer .'.  75 

140.  The  Maid  of  Orleans 75 

141.  Antonina.     By  Wilkie  Collins 50 

I  142.  Zanoni.     By  Bulwer 60 

143.  Reginald  Hastings.     By  Warburton 50 

144  Pride  and  Irresolution 50 

145.  The  Old  Oak  Chest.     By  James 50 

146.  Julia  Howard.     By  Mrs.  Martin  Bell 50 

147.  Adelaide  Lindsay.     Edited  by  Mrs.  Marsh 5» 

14S.  Petticoat  Government.     By  Mrs.  Trollope 50 

149.  The  Luttrells.     By  F.  Williams 50 

150.  Singleton  Fontenoy,  R.N.     By  Hannay 50 

151.  Olive.     By  the  Author  of  "  The  Ogilvies" 50 

152.  Henry  Smeaton.     By  James 50 

153.  Time,  the  Avenger.     By  Mrs.  Marsh 50 

154.  The  Commissioner.     By  James 1  00 

155.  The  Wife's  Sister.     By  Mrs.  Hnbback 50 

156.  The  Gold  Worshipers 50 

157.  The  Daughter  of  Night.     By  Fallom 50 

15S.  Stuart  of  Dunleath.     By  Hon.  Caroline  Norton.  50 

159.  Arthur  Conway.     By  Captain  E.  H.  Milman  . .  50 

160.  The  Fate.     By  James 50 

161.  The  Lady  aud  the  Priest.     By  Mrs.  Maberly. . .  50 

162.  Aims  and  Obstacles.     By  James 50 

163.  The  Tutor's  Ward 50 

164  Florence  Sackville.     By  Mrs.  Burbury 75 

165.  Ravenscliffe.     By  Mrs.  Marsh 50 

166.  Maurice  Tiernay.     By  Lever 1  00 

167.  The  Head  of  the  Family.     By  Miss  Mulock 75 

168.  Darien.     By  Warburton 50 

169.  Falkenburg 75 

170.  The  Daltons.     By  Lever 1  50 

171.  Ivar;  or.  The  gkjuts-Boy.     By  Miss  Carlen...  50 

172.  Pequinillo.     By  James 50 

173.  Anna  Hammer.     By  Temme 50 

174.  A  Life  of  Vicissitud'es.     By  James 50 

175.  Henry  Esmond.    By  Thackeray 50 

176.  177.  My  Novel.     By  Bulwer 1  50 

178.  Katie  Stewart 25 

179.  Castle  Avon.     By  Mrs.  Marsh 50 

180.  Agnes  Sorel.    By  James 50 

151.  Agatha's  Husband.     By  the  Author  of  "  Olive"  50 

152.  Villette.  -By  Currer  Bell 75 

183.  Lover's  Stratagem.     By  Miss  Carlen 50 

184  Clouded  Happiness.     By  Countess  D'Orsay 60 

185.  Charles  Auchester.    A  Memorial 75 

186.  Lady  Lee's  Widowhood 50 


Harper's  Library  of  Select  Novels. 


HARPER'S    Library    of    Select    Novels- 
Continued. 

187.  Dodd  Family  Abroad.     By  Lever $1  25 

188.  Sir  Jasper  Carew.     By  Lever 75 

189.  Quiet  Heart 25 

190.  Aubrey.     By  Mrs.  Marsh 75 

191.  Ticonderoga.     By  James 50 

192.  Hard  Times.     By  Dickens 50 

193.  The  Young  Husband.     By  Mrs.  Grey 50 

194.  The  Mother's  Recompense.     By  Grace  Aguilar.  75 

195.  Avillion,  &c.     By  Miss  Mulock 1  25 

196.  North  and  South.     By  Mrs.  Gaskell 50 

197.  Country  Neighborhood.     By  Miss  Dupuy 50 

198.  Constance  Herbert.     By  Miss  Jewsbury 50 

199.  The  Heiress  of  Haughton.     By  Mrs.  Marsh 50 

200.  The  Old  Dominion.     By  James 50 

201.  John  Halifax.    By  the  Author  of  "  Olive,"  &c.  75 

202.  Evelyn  Marston.     By  Mrs.  Marsh 50 

203.  Fortunes  of  Glencore.     By  Lever 50 

204.  Leonora  d' Oreo.    By  James 50' 

205.  Nothing  New.     By  Miss  Mulock 50 

206.  The  Rose  of  Ashurst.     By  Mrs.  Marsh 50 

207.'  The  Athelings.     By  Mrs.  Oliphant 75 

208.  Scenes  of  Clerical  Life 75 

209.  My  Lady  Ludlow.     By  Mrs.  Gaskell 25 

210.  211.  Gerald  Fitzgerald.     By  Lever 50 

212.  A  Life  for  a  Life.    By  Miss  Mulock 50 

213.  Sword  and  Gown.    By  Geo.  Lawrence 25 

214.  Misrepresentation.     By  Anna  H.  Drury 1  00 

215.  The  Mill  on  the  Floss.     By  George  Eliot 75 

216.  One  of  Them.    By  Lever 75 

217.  A  Day's  Hide.     By  Lever 50 

218.  Notice  to  Quit.    By  Wills 5( 

219.  A  Strange  Story 1  00 

220.  Brown,  Jones,  and  Robinson.     By  Trollope 50 

221.  Abel  Drake's  Wife.     By  John  Saunders 75 

222.  Olive  Blake's  Good  Work.     By  J.  C.  Jeaffreson.  75 

223.  The  Professor's  Lady 25 

224.  Mistress  and  Maid.     By  Miss  Mulock 50 

225.  Aurora  Floyd.     By  M.  E.  Braddon 75 

226.  Barrington.     By  Lever .• 75 

227.  Sylvia's  Lovers.     By  Mrs.  Gaskell 75 

228.  A  First  Friendship 50 

229.  A  Dark  Night's  Work.     By  Mrs.  Gaskell 50 

230.  Countess  Gisella.     By  E.  Marlitt 25 

231.  St.  Olave's 75 

232.  A  Point  of  Honor 50 

233.  Live  it  Down.     Ry  Jeaffreson 1  00 

234.  Martin  Pole.     By  Saunders 50 

235.  Mary  Lyndsay.     By  Lady  Ponsonby 50 

236.  Eleanor's  Victory.     By  M.  E.  Braddon 75 

237.  Rachel  Ray.     By  Trollope 50 

238.  John  Marchmont's  Legacy.     By  M.  E.  Braddon  75 

239.  Annis  Warleigh's  Fortunes.     By  Holme  Lee. . .  75 

240.  The  Wife's  Evidence.    By  Wills 50 

241 .  Barbara's  History.    By  Amelia  B.  Edwards 75 

242.  Cousin  Phillis 25 

243.  What  will  he  do  with  It  ?    By  Bulwer 1  50 

244.  The  Ladder  of  Life.    By  Amelia  B.  Edwards. . .  50 

245.  Denis  Drval.     By  Thackeray 50 

246.  Maurice  Dering.     By  Geo.  Lawrence 50 

247.  Margaret  Denzil's  History 75 

248.  Quite  Alone.    By  George  Augustus  Sala 75 

249.  Mattie :  a  Stray 75 

250.  My  Brother's  Wife.     By  Amelia  B.  Edwards. . .  50 

251 .  Uncle  Silas.     By  J.  S.  Le  Fann 75 

252.  Level  the  Widower.     By  Thackeray 25 

253.  Miss  Mackenzie.    By  Anthony  Trollope 50 

254.  On  Guard.     By  Annie  Thomas 50 

255.  Theo  Leigh.     By  Annie  Thomas 50 

256.  Denis  Donne.    By  Annie  Thomas 50 

257.  Belial 50 

258.  Carry's  Confession 75 

259.  Miss  Carew.     By  Amelia  B.  Edwards 50 

260.  Hand  and  Glove.     By  Amelia  B.  Edwards  ....  50 

261.  Guy  Deverell.     By  J.  S.  Le  Fanu 50 

262.  Half  a  Million  of  Money.    By  Amelia  B,  Edwards  75 

263.  The  Belton  Estate.     By  Anthony  Trollope 50 

264.  Agnes.     By  Mrs.  Oliphant 75 

265.  Walter  Goring.     By  Annie  Thomas 75 

260.  Maxwell  Drewitt.     By  Mrs.  J.  II.  Riddell 75 

267.  The  Toilers  of  the  Sea.     By  Victor  Hugo 75 

268.  Miss  Marjoribanks.     Ry  Mrs.  Oliphant 50 

269.  True  History  of  a  Little  Ragamuffin.    By  James 

Greenwood 50 

270.  Gilbert  Rugge.     By  the  Author  of  "A  First 

Friendship" 1  00 

271.  Sans  Merci.     By  Geo.  Lawrence 50 

272.  Phemie  Keller.     By  Mrs.  J.  H.  Riddell 50 

2T3.  Land  at  Last.     By  Edmund  Yates 50 

274.  Felix  Holt,  the  Radical.     By  George  Eliot 75 

275.  Bound  to  the  Wheel.    By  John  Saunders 75 


PEICE 

HARPER'S  Library  of  Select  Novels- 
Continued. 

276.  All  in  the  Dark.    By  J.  S.  Le  Fanu $  50 

277.  Kissing  the  Rod.     By  Edmund  Yates 75 

278.  The  Kace  for  Wealth.     By  Mrs.  J.  H.  Riddell. .  75 
27'J.  Lizzie  f.orton  of  Greyrigg.     By  Mrs.  Linton. . .  75 

280.  The  Beauclercs,  Father  and  Son.     By  C.  Clarke  50 

281.  Sir  Brook  Fossbrooke.     By  Charles  Lever 50 

282.  Madonna  Mary.     By  Mrs.  Oliphant 50 

283.  Cradock  Nowell.     By  H.  D.  Blackmore 75 

284.  Bernthal.     From  the  German  of  L.  Miihlbach.  50 

285.  Rachel's  Secret 75 

286    The  Claverings.     By  Anthony  Trollope 50 

287.  The  Village  on  the  Cliff.    By  Miss  Thackeray.  25 

288.  Played  Out.     By  Annie  Thomas 75 

289.  Black  Sheep.     By  Edmund  Yates 50 

290.  Sowing  the  Wind.     By  E.  Lynn  Linton 50 

291.  Nora  and  Archibald  Lee 50 

292.  Raymond's  Heroine 50 

293.  Mr.  Wynyard's  AVard.     By  Holme  Lee 50 

294.  Alec  Forbes.     By  George  Macdonald 75 

295.  No  Man's  Friend.     By  F.  W.  Robinson 75 

29<i.  Called  to  Account.     By  Annie  Thomas 50 

297.  Caste 50 

298.  The  Curate's  Discipline.     By-Mrs.  Eiloart 50 

299.  Circe.     By  Uabington  AAHiite 50 

300.  The  Tenants  of  Malory.     By  J.  S.  Le  Fanu...  50 

301.  Carlyon's  Year.    By  James  Payn 25 

302.  The  Waterdale  Neighbors 50 

303.  Mabel's  Progress. .' 50 

304.  Guild  Court.     By  Geo.  Mac  Donald 50 

305.  The  Brothers'  Bet.     By  Miss  Carlen 25 

306.  Playir/S  for  HiSh  Stakes.     By  Annie  Thorn 

as.     Illustrated 25 

307.  Margaret's  Engagement 50 

308.  One  of  the  Family.    By  James  Payn 25 

309.  Five  Hundred  Pounds  Reward.    By  a  Barrister.  50 

310.  Brownlows.     By  Mrs.  Oliphant 38 

311.  Charlotte's  Inheritance.     Sequel  to  "  Birds  of 

Prey."    By  Mi.*s  Braddon 50 

312.  Jeanie's   Quiet   Life.     By  the  Author  of  "St. 

Olave's" 50 

313.  Poor  Humanity.    By  F.  AV.  Robinson 50 

31 4.  Brakespeare.     By  Geo.  Lawrence 50 

315.  A  Lost  Name.    By  J.  S.  Le  Fanu 50 

316.  Love  o^-  Marriage  ?    By  AV.  Black 50 

317.  Dead-Sea  Fruit.  By  Miss  Braddon.  Illustrated.  50 

318.  The  Dower  House.     By  Annie  Thomas 50 

319.  The  Bramleighs  of  Bishop's  Folly.     By  Lever.  50 

320.  Mildred.    By  Georgiana  M.  Craik 50 

321.  Nature's  Nobleman.     By  the  Author  of  "  Ra- 

chel's Secret" 50 

322.  Kathleen.      By    the   Author    of  "Raymond's 

Heroine" 50 

323.  That  Boy  of  Norcott's.     By  Charles  Lever 25 

324.  In  Silk  Attire.     By  AV.  Black 50 

325.  Hetty.     By  Henry  Kingsley 25 

326.  False  Colors.     By  Annie  Thomas 50 

327.  Mela's  Faith.    By  the  Author  of  "St.  Olave's."  50 

328.  Found  Dead.     By  James  Payn 50 

329.  Wrecked  in  Port.     By  Edmund  Yates 50 

330.  The  Minister's  AVife.     By  Mrs.  Olipliant To 

331.  A  Beggar  on  Horseback.     By  James  Payn 35 

332.  Kitty.     By  M.  Betham  Edwards 50 

333.  Only  Herself.     By  Annie  Thomas 50 

334.  Hirell.     By  John  Saunders 50 

335.  Under  Foot.     By  Alton  Clyde 50 

336.  So  Runs  the  World  Away.   By  Mrs.  A.  C.  Steele.  50 

337.  Baffled.     By  Julia  Goddard 75 

338.  Beneath  the  AVheels 50 

339.  Stern  Necessity.     By  F.  AV.  Robinson 50 

340.  Gwendoline's  Harvest.     By  James  Payu 25 

341.  Kilmeny.    By  William  Black ". 50 

342.  John :  A  Love  Story    By  Mrs.  Oliphant 50 

343.  True  to  Herself.     By  F.  AAr.  Robinson 50 

344.  Veronica.  By  the  Author  of  "Mabel's  Progress"  50 

345.  A  Dangerous  Guest.     By  the  Author  of  "Gil- 

bert Rugge" 50 

R-ir,.  Egtelle  BoneO 75 

347.  The  Heir  Expectant.   By  the  Author  of  "Ray- 
mond's Heroine  " 50 

?,4S.  AVhicli  is  the  Heroine? 50 

349.  The  Vivian  Romance.     By  Mortimer  Collins. .  50 

350.  In  Duty  Bound.     Illustrated 50 

351.  The  AVarden  and  Barchester  Towers.     By  A. 

Trollope 75 

352.  From  Thistles— Grapes  ?    By  Mrs.  Eiloart 50 

353.  A  Siren.     By  T.  A.  Trollope 50 

354.  Sir  Harry  Hotspur  of  Humblethwaite.      By 

Anthony  Trollope.     Illustrated 50 

355.  Earl's  Dene.     By  R.  E.  Francillon 50 

356.  Daisy  Nicliol.     By  Lady  Hardy 50 


Miscellaneous  Popular  Novels. 


PEICB 

HARPER'S  Library  of  Select  Novels- 
Continued. 

357.  Bre tl  in  the  Bone.     By  James  Payn $  50 

353.  Feuton's  Que.-t.   By  Miss  Braddou.  Illustrated. .  50 

359.  Monarch  of  Mincing-Lane.    By  W.  Black.     Il- 

lustrated   60 

360.  A  Life's  Assize.     By  Mrs.  J.  H.  Kiddell 60 

3G1.  Anteros.  By  the  Author  of  "Guy  Livingstone."  50 

362.  Her  Lord  and  Master.     By  Mrs.  Ross  Church. .  50 

363.  Won— Not  Wooed.    By  James  Payn 50 

364.  For  Lack  of  Gold.     By  Charles  Gibbon 50 

365.  Anne  Furness 75 

366.  A  Daughter  of  Heth.     By  W.  Black 50 

367.  Durnton  Abbey.     By  T.  A.  Trollope 50 

368.  Joshua  Marvel.    By  B.  L.  Farjeon 40 

369.  Lovels  of  Arden.    By  M.  E.  Braddon.    Illus- 

trated   75 

370.  Fair  to  See.     By  L.  W.  M.  Lockhart 75 

371.  Cecil's  Tryst.     By  James  Payn 50 

372.  Patty.     By  Katharine  S.  Macquoid 50 

373.  Maud  Mohan.     By  Annie  Thomas 25 

374.  Grif.     By  B.  L.  Farjeon 40 

375.  A  Bridge  of  Glass.     By  F.  W.  Robinson 50 

376.  Albert  Lun el.     By  Lord  Brougham 75 

377.  A  Good  Investment.     By  Wm.  Flagg 50 

373.  A  Golden  Sorrow.     By  Mrs.  Cashel  Hoey 50 

379.  Ombfa.     By  Mrc.  Oliphant 75 

380.  Hope  Deferred.     By  Eliza  F.  Pollard 50 

351.  The  Maid  of  Sker.     By  R.  D.  Blackmore 75 

352.  For  the  King.     By  Charles  Gibbon 50 


HARPER'S  Library  of  Select  Novels- 
Concluded. 
383.  A  Girl's  Romance,  and  Other  Tales.     ByF.  W. 

Kobinson $  60 

3S4.  Dr.  Wain wright's  Patient.    By  Edmund  Yates.      50 


Jb5.  A  Passion  in  Tatters.     By  Annie  Thomas 

SSj.  A  Woman's  Vengeance.     By  James  Payn 50 

;  Si.  T;.e   Strange  Adventures  of  a  Phaeton.     By 

Wm.  Black 75 

oiS.  To  the  Bitter  End.     By  Miss  M.  E.  Braddon. .  75 

a»9.  Robin  Gray.    By  Charles  Gibbon 5u 

390.  Godolphin.     By  Bulwer 50 

391.  Leila.     By  Bulwer 50 

392.  Kenelm  Chilliugly.     By  Lord  Lytton 75 

393.  The  Hour  and  the  Man.   By  Harriet  Martineau  75 

394.  Murphy's  Master.     By  James  Payn 25 

395.  The  New  Magdalen.     By  Wilkie  Collins 50 

396.  '"HeComethNot,'SheSaid."  By Anuie Thomas  50 

397.  Innocent.  By  Mrs.  Oliphant.     Illustrated 75 

398.  Too  Soon.     By  Mrs.  Macquoid 50 

399.  Strangers  and  Pilgrims.    By  Miss  Braddon. ...  75 

400.  A  Simpleton.     By  Charles  Reade 50 

401.  The  Two  Widows.     By  Annie  Thomas 50 

402.  Joseph  the  Jew 50 

403.  Her  Face  was  Her  Fortune.     By  F.  W.  Robin- 

son   50 

404.  A  Princess  of  Thule.     By  W.  Black. 75 

405.  Lottie  Darling.     By  J.  C.  Jeaffreson 

406.  The  Blue  Ribbon.     By   the  Author   of   "St. 

Olave's"  . . 


639"  Mailing  Notice. — HAEPEB  &  BROTHERS  uill  send  their  Books  by  Mail,  postage  free,  to  any  part  of  the  United 

States,  on  receipt  of  the  Price. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POPULAR  NOVELS 

PUBLISHED  BY  HARPER   &   BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK. 

Harper  &  Brothers  publish,  in  addition  to  others,  including  their  Library  of  Select  Novels, 
the  following  Miscellaneous  Popular  Works  of  Fiction : 


(For  full  titles,  see  Harper's  Catalogue.) 
DICKENS'S  NOVELS,  Harper's  Household  Edition, 

Illustrated. 

Oliver  Twist.  Svo,  Cloth,  $1  00 ;  Paper,  50  cents. 
Martin  Chuzzlewit.  Svo,  Cloth, $1  50;  Paper, $1  00. 
The  Old  Curiosity  Sfcop.  Svo,  Cloth,  $1  25 ;  Paper, 

75  cents. 

David  Copperfleld.  Svo,  Cloth,  $1  50 ;  Paper,  $1  00. 
Dombey  and  Son.  Svo,  Cloth,  $1  50 ;  Paper,  $1  00. 
Kicholas  Nickleby.  Svo.Cloth,  $1  50 ;  Paper,  $1  00. 
Bleak  House.  Svo,  Cloth,  $1  50 ;  Paper,  $1  00. 
Pickwick  Papers.  Svo,  Cloth,  $1  50 ;  Paper,  $1  00. 
Little  Dorrit.  Svo,  Cloth,  $1  50;  Paper,  $1  00. 

To  lie  followed  by  the  Author's  other  novels. 
COLLINS'S*  Armadale.    Illustrations.     Svo,  Paper, 

$100. 

Man  and  Wife.    Illustrations.    Svo,  Paper,  $1  00. 
Moonstone.    Illustrations.    Svo,  Paper,  $1  00. 
No  Name.    Illustrations.    Svo,  Paper,  $1  00. 
Poor  Miss  Finch.   Illustrations.  Svo,  Paper,  $1  00. 
Woman  in  White.  Illustrations.  Svo,  Paper,  $1  00. 
COLLINS'S  NOVELS:    II/LTOTRATED  LIBRARY  EDI- 
TION.   12mo,  per  vol.  $1  50. 


Armadale.— Basil. — Hide  -  and  -  Seek.— Man   and 
Wife.— No  Name.— Poor  Mis$  Finch— The  Dead 
Secret.— The  Moonstone.— The  New  Magdalen.— 
The  Woman  in  White. — Queen  of  Hearts. 
BENEDICT'S  My  Daughter  Elinor.  Svo,  Cloth,  $1  75 ; 

Paper,  $1  25. 
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A     000  121  150     7 


